


Rage, Rage

by miamaroo (BFTLandMWandSek)



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Blackwatch (Overwatch) - Freeform, Blackwatch Era, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, F/F, F/M, Flashbacks, Gray Morality, M/M, Multi, Omnic Racism, Overwatch Family, Post-Recall, Pre-Fall of Overwatch, actual racism, aka: author takes fictional world building way too seriously, author also tries her damnest to give this game an cohesive lore/plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-17
Updated: 2017-09-23
Packaged: 2018-10-06 10:33:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 40,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10332695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BFTLandMWandSek/pseuds/miamaroo
Summary: Five years later, all agents are recalled back to active duty. Some say yes, most say no. Three give no response.(Alternatively—Jesse, Angela, and Fareeha are not old soldiers. They were young when they saw Overwatch's fall, so why should they ever want to go back?)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! I normally save my notes for the end of the chapter (which I assure you there still will be), but I really want to clarify a few things before you start reading. This story is a hodgepodge of ideas I’ve had or seen around other fanfictions about how Overwatch fell and how Recall would be five years later because, yes, this is both a “pre-fall” and a “post-recall” fic. In case the summary wasn’t clear enough (lol, I suck at writing them), this is about Fareeha, Angela, and Jesse dealing with their past lives in Overwatch before it fell while deciding how to respond to the recall. Essentially, I got a little sick of the fanfictions in which every ex-member of Overwatch and their mom readily commits a crime and joins Winston and decided to mix it up a bit. After all, Angela, Jesse, and Fareeha all grew up while in Overwatch so their POV on how things happened ought to be different. 
> 
> This fic is also an experiment of my own writing in which the story is told in media res with flashbacks to what happened before the events of the story begin. In order to achieve this effect, the story switches between present tense and past tense. Since I’ve never really written anything in a style like this before, critiques of where I could improve the clarity of the text would be greatly appreciated. 
> 
> Thank you and please enjoy this wreck of a story!

Five years later, not everyone has their communicators.

Everyone knows someone who used to be a part of Overwatch, and they all have a different story of what happened to the famous device shaped like the organization’s infamous insignia. A physics teacher in Montana tells his students that his communicator was confiscated when the United Nations suspended all operations. A little girl in South Africa says that her grandmother destroyed hers when rumors of Gabriel Reyes’s anger marred the tragedy of the destroyed headquarters. Many heroes stripped of their positions donates theirs to museums because, really, what else can they do with it?

But, through legislation and interrogations and all, there is those who manage to hold on. A police officer in the Philippines keeps his in the back corner of his dresser drawer. A suburban house wife mounts hers on the living room wall and gestures to it at every dinner party. A mercenary keeps theirs clipped to their belt in hope that, one day, that insignia of some desperate glory will blaze to life once more.

No one thought Overwatch would ever come back. The world could teeter on the brink of disaster once again, but Jack Morrison’s legacy will always remain buried with him in his grave.

But, on the cusp of autumn, it happens. Every communicator still in operation beeps the tones of an incoming message. It rings on and on until those who are left finally take their communicator in hand and answer.

On the holovid, there is Winston. He reads with ardent passion about the past, about the glory days of Overwatch before it all fell to ruin. He says that the world is in trouble and needs heroes. The deep rumbling of his voice sounds sure. He speaks like a bright-eyed visionary who didn’t see the internal organs of the world's personification of justice decay and rot. He ends with gold eyes looking straight at the camera, as if he can see history and know that its hand will one day illustrate him in the right.

Responses flood in.

Some say yes, most say no.

Three give no response.

* * *

 Mondatta is dead.

Angela never took much interest in him, only sparing the time to watch his speeches on the rare occasion, but the fact bothers her nonetheless. She sees his face in the metal panels on her car, the dead lights of his eyes in the lamp on her desk, and the bullet hole in his forehead in the ports of her computer. There aren’t many omnics in Ilios, this being a refugee camp for human patients, but she has an omnic assistant called Ovid. The hum of his motors is filled with a new note of sorrow, one that haunts her like the echoes of an old song. She looks at his impassive face as he talks to a little girl in need of a new leg and sees Tekhartha Mondatta in his mechanical, yet graceful movements. When they have a moment alone in the break room, she asks Ovid if he’s seen the news.

“Horrifying,” he says, shaking his head. His joints whirl, and Angela can see the brown wires of his neck flex like thyroid muscles. She wonders if he saw the monk’s gutted forehead and felt sick to his stomach. She wonders why she can’t look at the news reports and feel the same sickening guilt that floods her chest when she soars above a blood-splattered battlefield, one that demands to know why so many lives must be destroyed. What does Ovid think of her, knowing the role she played in the past?

“What does the world have to gain by losing its greatest mind?” Ovid says, like he already knows the answer.

At that moment, she forgets the chugging noise of the struggling coffee machine. She can’t hear the mummer of the other volunteer doctors or see the Red Cross emblem pinned to the sleeve of Ovid’s smock. For a split second, one so short it might as well have never happened, she can only hear an old voice from her past, a deep baritone that praises her for her achievements.  She sees the man behind a voice younger from than when he died, his skin still smooth and eyes still youthful. She can feel the warmth of his hand as he patted a circle into her back, calling her the greatest mind of this century. The memory is so consuming that she almost forgets to reply to her assistant, giving him her condolences and something that sounds like it could be an agreement.

She wants a moment to sit back and think about what happened last night, how the delicate balance she created all those years ago is gone, how the whole world seems to be ending all at once, but a woman just recently rescued from a warzone is flat-lining and both she and Ovid drop everything to pull on their gloves and get back to work.

Tekhartha Mondatta, greatest mind in the world—assassinated, dead.

According to the UN, the Omnic Crisis is over, has been for years. Yet, destruction never ends and she finds herself swarmed with more pleads for help every day. She moves from hospital to refugee camp to Red Cross territory, never staying in one place long enough to make a viable difference, but moving nonetheless since so many need her. Over the past five years, she’s gone from an accomplished woman with a variety of interests to a machine who is never allowed to stop. She spreads three hours of sleep over three days, gives up running and reading in favor of stitching and bandaging. Her hair, once gold and lively, hangs like limp cloth from her scalp. Deep purple shades her under eyes and every joint in her body aches. But still, she pushes on. Too many people need her and she’s made too little of a difference.

Mondatta’s face is on the Ovid’s screen.

Angela almost doesn’t recognize him in the orange sunlight, but then she blinks and can suddenly see the monk’s placid face. She digs a plastic spoon into her yogurt cup, trying to ignore the hustle of the white tents behind her as she takes her dinner break. For a moment, she does nothing more than sit beside Ovid at the edge of the cliff, feeling the ruins of Greece rise above them and the currents of the crystal blue ocean sweep hundreds of feet blow. A testament to heroism, a victorious gladiator made of stone, raises his sword and shield in the far distance. Angela looks younger than she feels. Her skin is smooth, her calves toned, her hands thin, her body slender—but she feels like a rock grinding against asphalt. Her knees hurt more every day and she considers her sleep-deprived headache normal. There’s a permanent dent in her hair from the hasty ponytail she always pulls it up in. She just wants everything to stop.

Angela stabs at her yogurt.  “Do they have any idea who did it?” she asks.

“A terrorist group, but they aren’t saying who.” He slides his finger down the projected screen, going to the bottom of the article. “They’re going to build a memorial for him.”

“Already?” she asks.

“Yes. In the spot where he died. An omnic artist will be designing it.”

“That’s good.” She nods, knowing she should have more to say but struggling to find the words. “It’s hard to find an omnic who can make art.”

Ovid says nothing. The hum of his machinery blends in with the crash of the waves as he reads the last few paragraphs. Angela wonders if she said something wrong. It’s been a long while since she’s had the freedom to attend a sensitivity seminar. Maybe it was time for a short vacation, just long enough to screw her head back on right. Ovid turns off the holovid and places it on his lap. “Is something bothering you, Dr. Zeigler?” he asks. “You’ve been oddly quiet all day and it is unlike you to take a break, even for dinner.”

She can’t help but to laugh a small note. “I guess it’s just one of those days,” she says. 

A beeping tone fills the air and Angela finds herself flinching away from it. Her hand shoves itself down into the pocket of her white coat and grasps her old communicator. Last night, its incessant beeping woke her from her small nap. The blazing symbol of Overwatch was alive, demanding she press its button to answer. Her gut had churned, billowing like a storm, as she stared at the colors.

For a split moment, she was seventeen again. Her face was rounder, skin brighter, and she’s gasping in awe at the Overwatch headquarters in Switzerland. She did not have a lot, but she could stare down the path her future seemed to be heading in. Her parents were dead, field doctors lost on the front lines during the Omnic Crisis, but she had grandparents who raised her. She had a large house hidden in the wooden mountainside where she spent a childhood reading whatever she could get a hold of under the splayed canopy of ancient trees. Her grandmother, a gentle women with a strong smile, homeschooled her. Learning was a way to connect to the original Dr. Zieglers. Devouring whatever she could get on human anatomy, biology, chemistry, psychiatry eased the gnawing worries of a child too smart for her own good. It brought her centimeters closer to feeling like her parents. Angela didn’t know she was even ahead until she first faced the idea of college at fifteen.

She graduated many times over, finishing one degree to only want another. Her professors looked at her with a sort of reverence, bowing their heads as they called her the greatest mind of the century. Everyone wanted to know what she thought about the world. So between meticulous notes and long nights studying, she wrote. Paper after paper was published about what she thought about the military and the unrest in the world. She had a voice back then, one she rose above the din whenever she could. She never stepped outside her dorm to join the people her age who stood on the sidewalks of government centers and hoisted large signs in the air as they shouted chants, but she felt herself alongside their cause nonetheless. She wrote and wrote, reminding the world over and over again of her parents and what so many like her have lost.

Looking back, Angela knew that it was only a matter of time before someone noticed her. That someone was a blue-eyed man who towered above her, carrying his height like a sign of authority. She remembered it being a day cast in early autumn, when the world was tinged in orange, but still grasping the last few strands of summer life. He caught her on the sidewalk after her last class of the day, walking in long strides to catch up with her.  “Miss Zeigler,” he said with a nod, grabbing her attention from her notes. It was a warm day. Leaves of rustic reds and browns endowed the trees as he held out a gloved hand. “I’ve been meaning to speak to you.”

Her eyes jumped to every inch of him—his cut jawline, gold hair, broad shoulders—until landing on the sleeve of his coat. There, the Overwatch symbol was stitched, the white and orange standing at rapt attention. “Can I take you to coffee?”

She did it. She made enough noise to garner the interest of Strike Commander Jack Morrison.

“Doctor?” One of Ovid’s hands is on the button of his holovid—the source of the beeping—as he turns it on silent. The other rests of her arm holding it in place as fingers turn the communicator under the cloth of her pocket. “Are you all right?”

She pulls her hand out, but the memory is still fresh. The café buzzed with the murmur of the afternoon crowd, lulling Angela like a lullaby. Details of her lecture filled every inch of her brain, fighting for space with her concern. She can still see the way Jack sat in a chair too small for him, his ankle balanced on the opposite knee. She’d ordered some kind of tea and he’d ordered coffee. Despite her protests, he paid for both.

It was the start of Overwatch’s golden days, she remembers. The UN finally had the details of how it was going to be run sorted out. Jack Morrison’s face was on every nightly news channel. He was as common place as the caricature of Justice with her blind eyes, but no one at the café seemed to recognize him. No one seemed to notice when he placed his hands on the table and presented her the opportunity of a lifetime—the quirk of his brow, the leather on his hands. Overwatch would help pay her college expenses. She would get to finish her studies debt free and guaranteed a job under his command. She would get an unlimited budget and her own department if only she could ignore her values and join them. “You will be doing so much good,” Jack had said. “I know what your views are, but you are the greatest mind of the century. With the opportunity we’re giving you, you can reinvent the definition of medicine. You can save so many lives.”

She can still feel her response of her lips— _Overwatch kills._

“Overwatch also defends, rescues, protects. At every Red Cross camp, there is at least one squadron of agents there to protect the nurses. At the first sign of disaster in any part of the world, us and our field doctors the first ones to respond.  I’m not saying that we’re a perfect organization, but we’re the best there is. You can either complain about all the horrors of the world or you can stand up and do something about it. It’s your choice, Doctor.”

She refused. A month later, he invited her to visit the Swiss Headquaters. He toured her around himself, grinning as he introduced her to other officers and soldiers under his command. He wielded respect and congeniality with the ease of a man who simply loved people, something so foreign to the severe man she saw on propaganda posters. She was greeted gruffly by Commander Gabriel Reyes. Under his harsh stare, he quirked a smile and suggested she visit the science labs. She did, and there she saw people of all genders and races assembling different technologies for different means. A dwarf of a man rumbled as he held up the blueprints of a sniper rifle. “I’ve made too many mistakes in my life time,” he told her. “One day, I might even invent something that will never be used against me. Something good to the core, all the way through.”

She looked at the emblem of Overwatch and saw something imperfect, something her brain could change. The ranks were already brimming with so many people who wanted to make a difference. She told Jack she would join, knowing she was going to be the vital key to make that difference. And she held that idea close to her chest, a little lock-and-key secret to warm her when the going got tough on the mountainside base.

 “Doctor?” Ovid is taking her yogurt cup from her hand and she’s back in the present. Below is the back and forth of the waves, above the ruins of something once great. She is in Ilios. Mondatta is dead and Overwatch is alive. “I think it’s time for you to take a nap.”

“I’m not tired,” she says, but when the omnic helps her to her feet, her head swims. Suddenly, she wants to go home. She wants to be in that house she grew up in, lounging under an ancient tree as she reads. She wishes her grandmother was still alive, that her parents were here to take her hand and tell her everything will be alright.

Most of all, she’s tired and only wants to sleep.

She feels silly being half-carried across the camp by Ovid, privy to the concerned looks of the other volunteers, but when he has her back in her tent she can’t bring herself to care. He lets her lay herself on her bed and she turns on her side, face to the rest of the tent. The pull of sleep is upon her in a second, but she fights to keep her eyes open just a little longer. She watches Ovid meander around her tent, making sure the flaps on the cut-out windows are closed. Her space is Spartan bare, but he doesn’t seem surprised by it.

“I’ll make sure you’re covered for the rest of the night, just please get some sleep,” he says, tidying the few papers she has on her desk. She remembers then the invite she received to talk to some journalist back home in Switzerland and she wonders if she could use an interview as a good excuse to take a short vacation. “Is there anything else I can do to help you, Doctor?”

Through the entrance of the tent, she can see the blue swell of the ocean. Sunset is still in progress, the bottom of the sun barely glossing the horizon. Angela stares at Ovid’s metal face, wishing that she could see an emotion in his electric eyes. She wants to tell him. She wants him to sit down and listen to how she met Jack Morrison and everything that happened afterwards. She wants him to understand the horror of what happened in Switzerland, why the very idea of Overwatch returning leaves an unsettled thumping in her gut.

Most of all, she wants to ask why everything that goes wrong in the world always happens at once. Mondatta is dead, shot in King’s Row, and Overwatch is coming back to life. She wants to know when her mistakes will leave her alone. Instead, she shakes her head and lets him go. Only when Ovid is long gone does she pull her communicator from her pocket and press the button. The message projects into the air, a paused image of Winston with a formal invite to join him in his crime. She swallows and stares at his sure face.

Sleep doesn’t come easy. It would be more accurate to say it doesn’t come at all.

* * *

“Get up, asshat!”

Water splashes on his face, and it takes Jesse McCree a split second to make three conclusions. First, the voice is from the owner of the bar whose room he was currently renting. Second, she’s here at the ass crack of dawn, so desperate to see him that she invites herself in with her copy of the key. Jesse considers her to be neither the most or least trustworthy person he knows, a solid coin flip on the trust scale, so this can either be a good or bad thing. Jesse has spent too much of his life on the wrong side of trouble to know to err on the side of caution. Third, she is standing close enough to splash water on him, meaning she is within arm’s reach. Knowing her, the twin brass knuckles she shows the patrons of her bar every time trouble arises adorn her hands now.

Knowing all this, Jesse makes his move.

He kicks a leg out, sending her flying backwards. It’s not the best kick, the serape he uses as a blanket hindering his movements, but it gets the job done. The plastic jug that held the water clatters onto the carpet and he hears her legs catch on the coffee table, sending her tumbling over it and onto the floor. This buys him a few seconds to wipe the water off his brow and reach into his holster for Peacekeeper. By the time she has her head screwed back on right, Jesse is standing with a foot on the coffee table and the barrel of his gun aimed at the spot between her eyes.

The curtains of the small living room are drawn shut, blocking out the first few beams of morning light. The white walls and stained carpet look gray. Despite it all, the bar owner is a bright mess of color. Her skin is a rich healthy brown that is just light enough to reveal a splattering of freckles across her cheeks and nose. She is a full ten years younger than him, evident in the lively bounce of her cropped curls. Her full lips are painted their usual sunflower yellow, a shade so bright it blinds Jesse if he looks at it for too long. The color carries down to her off-shoulder shirt, one he distinctly remembers her wearing yesterday. If the dark circles under her eyes are evidence of anything, she didn’t go to bed after closing last night.

He frowns. What could not only keep her up for so long, but also have her knocking at the first sign of daylight?

“Jesus Christ, McCree!” she snaps, a hand nursing the side of her head. “Do you think I’m here to kill you or something?”

That’s when he notices the lack of brass knuckles on her hands. He eyes her for a moment longer before glancing around the open room. No one seems to be hiding behind the counter of the outdated kitchen and the papers he strategically placed near the one other doorway to his bedroom are undisturbed. They are alone. Damn, looks like he flipped the coin of trust in his favor. He jams Peacekeeper back into her holster and extends his metal hand towards the bar owner. “So sorry, Miss Kit, jus’a bad habit of mine,” he says, trying his best to sound apologetic. He didn’t need to get kicked out of this place just yet, not without getting a job worth his while first.

Kit glowers and picks herself off the ground without his help. “Yeah, yeah. What kind of idiot sleeps on the couch anyway? I gave you a bed for a reason.”

He doesn’t say that the window by the couch is right by a tree, making a sudden escape from the room safer. He doesn’t tell her that he gets a full view of the front door, meaning that if someone tries to kick the lock in, the noise will easily wake him. He wants to sit her down on the cushion and explain to her the rules that Reyes had drilled into his brain in his youth, but experience is a key and it locks his mouth shut from revealing too many details about himself.

“I much prefer the couch, if that’s alright with you,” he tells her instead. He smooths his hand through his mess of hair, grimacing when he felt the grease. When has he last showered? He must look like a mess with his tawny skin and calloused hands. A small rubber band holds back hair that he should have cut months ago. He back aches from sleeping in his chest armor and he can’t remember the last time he changed the plaid shirt underneath. His beautiful serape, well-worn and frayed with age, sits on the couch, wet from the splash of water, the closest it’s come to being clean in years. Shaking the thought from his head, he meanders into his small kitchen and yanks a handful of paper towels from the roll. The scruff of his beard scratches his skin as he dries off, brain turning as he plans his next move. He needs to edge off Kit’s anger before even attempting to find out why she’s here all while keeping up the persona of his idiotic charm. Easy stuff.  Would be easier if his breath didn’t smell like the whiskey bottle he guzzled last night, but he wasn’t one to back down from a challenge.

“Can I get ya anything ta eat?” he asks, already reaching into his oven for his beaten up pan. “I reckon it’s not too early for some eggs and bacon.”

Kit frowns, readjusting the scarf around her forehead. “Do you know how much trouble you put me through?” she demands. Jesse pretends to look for his carton of eggs in his bare refrigerator, keeping an askance glance on the younger woman. She’s flexing her hands—agitation, anxiety—before finally setting to rearrange the pillows and straighten the couch cushions.

He hums, hiding his smirk. “I went to bed bright ‘n early last night,” he says, taking the carton in hand and closing the fridge. “Did someone come diddlin’ on by and start askin’ about my bounty?”

“I wish.” A familiar feeling welled at the bottom of his gut. He reckons that Reyes would be downright proud to know that despite his impending sense of danger rocketing off, he is still lighting the stove and cracking his few remaining eggs. He watches Kit refold his serape with a huff, unaware of the itch in his fingers as she rambles. “So I’m closing up the bar for the night and it’s already an hour later than usual because those brutes from Iceland had to get into a fight and break everything. So I’m cleaning up when this woman comes moseying on in. I try telling her I’m closed, but then she starts helping me clean up and I figure I just got some nobody looking to start over at my humble establishment.”

Jesse snorts, partly because he knows she’s cracking a joke and he needs to stay on her good side, but mostly because it’s sincerely hilarious. The bar is located in the middle of the woods in nowhere New England. The only people who come by are bounty hunters and mercenaries who want to check out the latest available jobs. It is a tooth-and-nail sort of joint, one Kit only came to run after she murdered the previous owner. If Jesse doesn’t do her every good favor in the universe, she will turn him in for the hefty bounty hanging over his head at the most opportune moment. It also doesn’t hurt that she has a painfully obvious crush on him. He couldn’t tell why, him being the wreck he is, but he would have to be a fool to not notice the way her eyes always fly back to him whenever he can be bothered to sit at her bar.

Kit continues, “so she’s helping out just fine when she starts talking about everyone on the bounty board.”

“And this woman brings me up?” Jesse asks.

Kit nods and straightens the coffee table. “She starts asking too many questions too. Who are you, when was the last time you were seen—things that says she knows you’re up here and just wants to confirm it. Now, I’m not stupid so I start saying that I’d last heard you were holed up in Deadlock Gorge. Things like that. Then she says the strangest thing before just getting up and leaving. No goodbyes, no threats—she just gets up and leaves.”

Jesse grinds his jaw, nudging the cooking eggs with a fork. It occurs to him that he forgot to use some of that non-stick spray stuff, but he doesn’t quite care. “Well? What did she go through all that trouble ta tell ya?” he asks.

She pauses. Her yellow lips press together. “She said, ‘if McCree was in Deadlock Gorge, Reyes would have found him already.’”

For a moment, Jesse nearly forgets himself. He forgets that he’s thirty-seven and finally free. He forgets that now he is Jesse McCree, a name he chose all by himself. He feels the ghost of Gabriel Reyes behind his back and, suddenly, he’s a scrawny brat everyone named Deadeye. He’s seventeen and high on a pipedream.

Before being Deadeye, he was a kid made from nothing, so forgettable that the moment some older guys with cool tattoos came around in search of some orphan twelve year old they could manipulate, he threw away his old name and became what they wanted. For years, he was simply the Brat who did whatever small task he was asked. Robbery, smuggling, assault: it didn’t matter. They could line however many burns along the inside of his elbow as they wanted, he was in it for the long haul. It took far too long for one of the older guys to put a gun in his hand. He couldn’t describe what it’s like when he first stared down the barrel of a gun. Until the moment he first pulled the trigger, his whole life seemed to be disjointed puzzle pieces from different boxes. He never quite worked, never quite fit. When he first pulled the trigger and watched red bloom across some poor nobody’s chest, he felt whole. For the first time, he was a real person.

Since then, he never missed a shot. Not once.

So a nobody who threw away his name and became the Brat was suddenly known along the entirety of Route 66 as Deadeye. He didn’t choose the name for himself, but he wore it with pride nonetheless. His mouth curled into a smirk whenever he introduced himself, watching people squirm at the very idea of him. He wasn’t the highest ranking member of the Deadlock Rebels, but what little power he had made him feel unstoppable. He could have lived his whole life inside that dusty, red canyon.

That was when Overwatch happened. He didn’t know it was Overwatch, not at first. He and the rest of the rebels heard down the black market grapevine that an unknown group with no obvious affiliations was taking out every operation it could with covert stings. They thought they were more than ready when it was their turn for the black-clothed agents to swarm their warehouse, shouting orders and shooting without questions. Jesse was Deadeye and he had the high ground. He lay on his stomach on top of a column of metal containers mere inches from the ceiling, aiming his rusty revolver down at the agents. From his angle, no one could see him. One had the scale the rafters to reach him and the inevitable clanking of metal would alert him to anyone who tried. He didn’t have a lot of smarts about him, but he was more cunning than what the other members of the gang gave him credit for.

He took a deep breath and felt everything slow down. Like every time before, he could feel time continue its normal pace alongside him, but in the short breaths it took to aim, the world seemed to slow to a funeral march. A feeling rose in his chest and he smashed it down the instant before he tightened his finger around the trigger. One, two, three, four, five, six—agents he didn’t care to know the names of dropped to the ground in seconds, bullets between the eyes.

Deadeye emptied the empty shells from the chamber, reaching into his back pocket for another load when he felt a cold presence behind him. The metal tip of a shotgun pressed against his head. He had a moment to wonder how anyone got to his spot without making a noise when a gruff voice spoke. “I was wondering why you had a name as dumb as Deadeye.”

Like that, the power of his name was gone. He twisted around, dodging the nozzle of the gun as a blast sounded off, catching a single glance at the man who bested him. Dark skinned, trimmed bear, burning irises—there was a passion locked deep within precise kicks sent Deadeye’s way, but he knew he was only a prop. This man loved fighting. Whether it was fighting him or some other nobody locked in the traps of the gang, it didn’t matter. He just wanted to fight.

Fight he did. Deadeye dodged shotgun blasts and precise kicks—anything to stay alive—but he couldn’t bring himself to raise his gun. He was Deadeye and he never missed a shot. Why couldn’t he just raise his gun and end it all? Grinding his teeth together, he finally braced his knees and took aim. He needed less than a second. He could blink and line his shot up, but before he could even press on the trigger, a boot bludgeoned into the side of his face. Blood filled his mouth as he slid across the ground. He held his gun in a vice, feeling a few pained tears well around the corners of his eyes.

Deadeye rolled onto his back. A shuddering breath ran through him as he held up his gun again. His arms shook. He spat a clot of blood on the ground. He took aim. The man yanked the revolver out of his hand, face smoothed of any emotions. He knelt on the ground. He watched Deadeye’s chest rise and fall in rapid motion, coughing as more blood spurt between his lips. The noise of the carnage roared behind them as Deadlock rebels were shot and arrested. Deadeye had a brief moment to wonder which his fate would be.

The man wrapped his hand around the column of Deadeye’s neck and lifted him up, just enough to scrutinize his face. Suddenly, the gold on the man’s eyes shifted, buzzing like electricity. “Shit. You’re just a kid,” he said and Deadeye—what used to be Deadeye—he isn’t sure of this is the moment he decided to stop going by that name—knew he was fucked. He didn’t know that the man’s name was Gabriel Reyes, that the large hand that gripped his neck would be the one to pull him out of the shit show of his own making. He didn’t understand the pity in the gold irises. He was only a boy with no real name of his own. He didn’t know anything.

His eggs are burning.

Jesse pushes a long breath out his nose, shaking his head as the memory rang through him. “Ain’t ever heard of that name before,” he lies. He is too shaken to make it convincing, but he doesn’t care. Kit can be suspicious of him all she wants, he’ll be gone before nightfall. Reyes is a pretty common name, but there has only ever been one in his life and he’s dead, been dead for five whole years. Jesse accepted that a long time ago, when his old commander didn’t rise from the rumble of the Swiss headquarters he saw on the news.

But what if he’s still alive? What then?

Jesse shakes his head, but the idea gnaws at him nonetheless. He hums as he pushes the eggs around, trying to make up for the burnt bits mingling throughout.  He feels Kit watch him for a moment longer before returning to her task. “Whatever you say,” she says. “Just do something about it before she brings back some gang to trash my place.”

“Will do, Miss Kit.” Jesse reaches up a hand to tip the edge of his hat, only to remember that it’s sitting on the ground by the couch. He gets a split second to remember what happened last night when the young women, in her fit of cleaning, bends down to pick it up.

She pauses. “What’s this?” Jesse’s hand is back on his gun, but she doesn’t see that. Her eyes are trained on the circular communicator sitting harmlessly where the hat once was. She picks it up, turning it in her hand as confusion fills her features. “What in the… isn’t this Overwatch?”

Jesse doesn’t reply. His quick mind fails him the same way it did last night when the communicator’s beeping interrupted his lonesome drinking. He wants to lean against the counter and say that he picked it off some guy he brought in three odd years back, but his body refuses to move. Owlishly, he watches Kit fiddle with a few of the buttons until it projects the holovid in the air. The last frame of Winston’s face hovers in the air. Below it, a formal message box:

AGENT JESSE MCCREE, #51652002

YOU HAVE BEEN RECALLED BACK TO DUTY

Her mouth drops open. She looks between him and the screen, as if she couldn’t decide where to begin. “You’re an agent of Overwatch?” Kit demands, voice squeaking on the last note. She gawks at him, as if trying to envision him in the royal blue uniform.

Jesse turns off the stove, taking a measured breath. Then, with purposeful strides, he walks up to the woman in bright, bright yellow and takes the communicator in his hand. Her hands are small and the communicator is smaller, swallowed in his palm. He turns it off, saying, “Used to. Done gone ran the moment things went sour.”

Her mouth curves as if he’s telling a joke. “Is that how you disappeared for fifteen years? Played it straight and did the good thing?” she says. “You don’t seem like the type.”

“That’s cause I’m not.” He grins. “You’ve seen enough Blackwatch folk come walkin’ through yer doors to know what one looks like.” The new, guarded look on her face tells him to keep the part where he worked on high profile Overwatch missions towards the end a secret. She doesn’t need to know how close he came to becoming another cog in the legal, kiss-the-UN’s-ass machine. She can think of him as one of the many agents who instigated multiple riots and civil wars, who shot innocents in the back of the head because someone up higher said they were a necessary casualty. He’ll be rid of her soon, so he doesn’t need to worry about what she thinks anymore.

“Blackwatch,” she echoes. Her mouth presses into a line. Her brown eyes shift, but it’s not with the pity Reyes showed him years ago. He remembers then that she’s supposed to have some kind of crush on him and he can’t imagine what is circling inside her head. The part of him Reyes built is scared to not know and demands to find out. The part of him he made himself decides to let it go.

“Look, just make sure nothing bad happens to my bar, okay?” she says. “I have plenty of other things to worry about.”

“I’ll be out of your hair soon enough,” he replies.

Jesse watches her look around the room, as if searching for something else to occupy her hands. She would have been in high school when Overwatch met its very public demise. He wonders what they teach the kids in school about it, if Gabriel Reyes’ name will forever be cast as the antagonist. He wants to ask her, but then her yellow lips purse and she moves past him. She takes her copy of the keys off the table. “Alright. See you later.”

He blinks. He feels like there should be more. She should be standing in amazement, asking how Agent McCree became Jesse. He wants her to say she was a part of the protests, that she can’t trust a scoundrel like him. He wants her to lay out the sins of his old life, point to each one with a painted finger, and demand to know of his guilt. As the door closes behind her, he realizes how open he’s been with her. Without realizing it, he let her see parts of himself that only existed in the Agent or the Brat or even Deadeye. Despite every word of warning from Reyes, he let himself get attached to someone he only intended to use.

He imagines for a brief moment that he likes her back. How perfect it would be for him to find completion in the spunky owner of a bar made for people like him, but he has a job to do. He was a part of the system. He knows how little justice is actually dispensed to those who do all the world’s wrongs. He can’t drag anyone into the life he lives. He can’t even imagine himself going back to Overwatch. The recall message has to be automatic. How else would Winston look at the record he’s amassed for himself and believe for one moment Jesse would want to be a part of another bureaucratic mess?

Still, the company would be nice.

Jesse sinks onto the couch, the smell of cooked eggs filling the air. The curtains had cracked open without him knowing and now a streak of sunlight cuts across the carpet. He picks his hat off the ground and pushes in onto his greasy head of hair. He fetches his bottle of whiskey from under the couch. He throws his head back and pours as much as he can down his throat. The burn is sweet. It comforts him like a song that would play on the radio on the long nights he spent alone as a child. He wipes his mouth with his forearm before slouching. The bottle hangs loosely in his hand. Reyes and Deadlock Gorge, two paths in life he thought he long lost, fills his head like the booming drums of an orchestra. There’s little chance it’s actually Reyes waiting for him at the old gorge, but he can’t ignore it if he wanted to, not when someone’s been asking around for him.

He takes another swing. He wishes he was a kid again and the burn still brought tears to his eyes. The bottle’s empty and he places it on the coffee table like it’s a work of art. He picks up his carefully folded serape and wraps it around his shoulders. In his little apartment, he is the only thing that moves.

* * *

As she plummets to the ground, all Fareeha can think about is her mother.

In her mind’s eye, she see how Ana looked the last time she saw her alive. Brown skin crinkled like paper, hair long and gray as it streamed out from her beret. On that summer day Fareeha was still in her army gear, fresh off the first transport from Cairo. They were at the Swiss Headquarters months before its destruction and they were arguing. It killed Fareeha to think that, to this day—to the moment her own lapse in judgement sends her crashing to the ground—she can remember the lack of snow on the mountain’s side but still have no idea what her mother’s exact words were. For years, she’s wanted to lay them out, dissect them bit by bit and try to discover some lasting message, a reassurance that could carry a daughter through a lifetime without her mother. Instead, they argued the same battle they always fought. This is not the life I wanted for you, Ana would say, and Fareeha would tell her that this was the only life she’d ever wanted. On that summer day, Fareeha stormed away and chose to instead spend her leave in Canada with her father, steaming over the fight until two men in black suits knocked on the door of her father’s condo and told them the news.

At sixteen hundred hours, Ana Amari was killed in action deep in hostile territory. A team went back after her, something reserved only for Overwatch’s second-in-command. They found her rifle with notches carved into the metal sides. A few hard hands uncovered her communicator beneath the rumble of the building she last perched in. Her body, however, was never found. Whether Talon or some scavenger took it, no one can say for sure. All they had left of her was enough blood splatters to constitute someone as dead, the weapon that weighed so heavily on her conscience, and the communicator shaped in the emblem of the organization she died for.

At the funeral, Reinhardt pressed the very same circular device into Fareeha’s palm. “This should belong to you,” he told her, sandwiching her hand between two of his. He bent down to her, seemingly ready to curl within himself at any given moment. “Your mother was— _is—_ a hard woman to understand. I can’t tell you for sure what she was thinking, but I can say that she loves you with every inch of her heart, that—” A sob broke from his throat and he never finished his thoughts. He crushed her into a hug before Torbjörn eased him away.

Fareeha had stood in the graveyard behind the Swiss base for a long while afterwards, lost in thought. Jack Morrison put the whole service together with only a vague idea of how Muslim funerals are supposed to go. Without a body, they could only lay the shroud they were supposed to wrap her in to rest, the imaginary head directed towards Mecca. Everyone poured their three handfuls of dirt into the grave while saying the verse in shoddy Arabic. Fareeha tried to tell herself that she should be grateful her mother got as much as she did, but she still felt the resentment burn. Her mother shouldn’t be dead, Jack Morrison shouldn’t have arranged the funeral, their last conversation shouldn’t have been an argument, and this was not supposed to be how her life turned out. Without Ana, none of the members of Overwatch whom she called family had any reason to maintain contact with her. She already lost pseudo brothers and uncles the moment she began living with her dad full time at sixteen. Now that Ana was dead, she lost the rest of her family as well.

Fareeha remembers crying, but she can’t say for how long. She felt as though she stood there for years, wailing as she waited for her mother to tap the back of her shoulder and usher her inside for tea. Of course, that didn’t happen. Instead, the day before Fareeha had to report back to Cario to resume her duty in the Egyptian military, she had the udjat—the same as her mother’s—tattooed under her eye.

The blare of the Raptora Mark IV’s inner alarms rings high and loud in her ears, warning her of her incoming impact with the streets of Numbani.  Fareeha grits her teeth, suddenly feeling the heat of her smoking jetpacks on her back. She can’t decipher the ground from the smoke through the broken lenses of her helmet. She has seconds to do something,  _anything_ before she crashes to the ground and becomes another causality. Now more than ever, she feels the tattooed eye of Horus on her cheek. She learned a long time ago that she is a protector, but for a solid moment she wants Ana to save her, because the day before Fareeha was slated to leave for Numbani to give security to a conference featuring child prodigy Efi Oladele, she received the letter.

 _My dearest Fareeha,_ it began.

 _Your mother, Ana,_ it ended

For the past five years, her mother has been alive. The very thought consumes every inch of her mind. Fareeha doesn’t know if she can believe it, but she wants to. She wants to believe that her mother is there, waiting for her at her usual spot at the table, smiling with a story to tell. She wants to feel Ana’s arms around her shoulders and the voice that raised her say  _I love you_ over and over again. At the same time, a fire rages on. In the chamber of her chest, Fareeha feels the weight of the past half-decade scorch her lungs as a fiery scream fights its way up her throat. She wants to demand why she was left alone for so long. She wants to look deep into her mother’s brown eye and ask if her duty to protect was worth abandoning her only child.

“Lieutenant, pull up!” It’s Tariq’s voice that yanks her from her shock. The little girl who misses her mother is gone, replaced by the soldier determined to live on.

Fareeha turns off the engines to the rockets on her back, effectively preventing the fire from reaching the gas tank. She feels her eyes sharpen, focusing on the sweeping pavement of people and cars below her. Fifty yards ahead is the edge of the city and the beginning of the savannah. She shifts her weight from side to side, the air catching under her metal wings as she coasts around signs the rising lamp posts. “This is Lieutenant Amari,” she shouts, unsure if her communicator is even working or if her comrades even care what becomes of her when Oladele’s conference is being attacked by enemy hostiles. Once again, she curses her carelessness. If she’d kept her mind in the right place, on protecting the lives in she is supposed to, she would have been able to dodge the missile aimed at her back. “I’m attempting a crash landing in the savannah, over.”

Finally, she soars over the brown fields of grass and sees the flat tops of lanky trees. Fareeha takes a deep breath and braces her arms before her she sinks closer and closer and closer to the blurring ground until, suddenly, the impact bursts through her whole body and the world goes black.

When she wakes up, she’s in the hospital. Her left arm is broken, the rest of her skin covered in purple bruises, and her teammates tell her that Oladele and the people of Numbani are safe. Her superiors ignore her insistence that she has done more in the Egyptian military with more injuries than a shattered ulna and radius. They give her mandatory medical leave and ship her back to her apartment in Cario with no room to argue or debate.

Autumn in the city is no different than autumn at Helix Security International, but compared to the cacophony of soldiers and the blasts of weapons, the roar of traffic and the hustle of pedestrians feels oddly quiet. A few teammates tried to convince her to let them drive her back to her building, but she insisted on slugging her duffle bag on the shoulder of her good arm and walking. Under the armor of the Raptora Mark IV, she can’t feel the air rush around her dark face. Here, meandering down the familiar streets she calls home, she feels more alive than she has in days.

 _Mom is alive—_ the thought jams itself back into the forefront of her mind.

Fareeha presses her lips. She can handle this, but not when she was still a block from her apartment. With a little adjusting, she manages to pull her phone from her pocket. It takes more than a little fiddling to pull up the news. Time seemed to have stopped while in the hospital and she needs to know what has happened to the world since she crashed. On her screen, she sees that Tekhartha Mondatta died while she was in the hospital. The newscaster in a hijab is on the front page’s featured video, small mouth tight as she talked in a somber voice: “Officials at the Numbani Overwatch museum confirmed early this morning reports of communicators that were on display to the public had begun beeping late last night. This comes shortly after Efi Oladele’s conference was interrupted by—”

Fareeha turns off her phone, partly because she doesn’t need to be reminded of the duty she failed to perform, partly because she’s finally at her apartment building. She lives on the top floor, so high in the sky she has to look down through her window to see the sweeping dives of birds. Yet when she finally turns the key in her lock, she’s can’t take a moment to enjoy the sunlight streaming through her windows. She can only hearing the annoying beeps of her mother’s communicator.

Fareeha stands stalk still for a moment, letting her duffle back slip off her broad shoulders and to her feet. The noise takes her back to morning so early it might as well still be night when Ana was called to duty. Fareeha can still feel her blanket wrapped around her slim shoulders as she stood at the doorway to watch her mother pull on her fatigues, rambling in Arabic about the chores and homework Fareeha still needed to do while she was gone.

She swallows, closing her front door before meandering to her bedroom. The communicator sits in a drawer at her nightstand, and she pulls it out with a billowing stomach. It takes her a moment to remember how it works, but she presses a calloused finger on the right button and Winston’s message projects on the holovid. His baritone voice is soothing as she rises from her kneel to sit at the edge of bed, feeling the arm in the cast ache. Winston talks about the past and the present before saying that the future needs Overwatch to come back. When he’s finished, she sees her mother’s name and her identification number appear before her. For a long moment, all she can do is stare. Overwatch, the place of her childhood, the idol of her dreams, is back. The recall is not offered to her, but she could accept it in her mother’s name. She could pack her bags and head to wherever Winston is and finally take her place among the organization’s ranks. She sees the path in the expanse of the sky. All she has to do is to let her determination spread before her like wings and carry her there.

Except, her mother is alive. Ana is out there, fighting a war she never wanted her daughter to participate in.

Fareeha turns off the communicator, pushing a long breath through her lungs. She glances up and sees the motes of dust sparkle gold in the light from the windows. Stiffly, she unlaces her boots until her white-bandaged feet can touch the warm wood of her floor. Everything feels harder without the use of her left arm, but she manages nonetheless to drag herself to the window of her room. She pushes the window open, allowing a light breeze to flesh into the stuffed room. The sheer curtains she bought on sale years ago flutter like an image in a painting and, for the first time, she finds their baby blue hue beautiful.

She stands before the breeze, among the sparkling gold air, and feels the weighty mantel of her mother’s legacy rest upon her shoulders once again. No longer is she only Fareeha Amari. For the first time in many years, she is Ana Amari’s daughter. She is the offspring of an idol, an image that far surpassed the woman who originated it. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. Her lungs feel full of warmth as she imagines the paper of her mother’s letter between the pads of her fingers. “What do you want me to do?” she says aloud, knowing that no one will answer but feeling reassured nonetheless.

When she opens her eyes once again, the screen of her phone is bright. She picks it up and sees Reinhardt’s name on a message, followed by a series of numbers.  _Coordinates_ , her mind supplies. The man she considers to be a second father contacts her like a clock every first of the month and on holidays. The messages are always loud with personality, paragraphs long with stories of his adventures and pestering questions about her life. The lives they live never allowed for anything more personal, but a message filled with nothing but coordinates is new.

Fareeha has them in a search engine in no time, just figuring out where exactly in Germany he is when she receives another message:

_Oops! I pressed send far too soon (I swear buttons were not this small when I was your age). It’s been such a long time since we’ve last seen each other! Perhaps a visit can be arranged?_

There are many things that go unsaid. Fareeha can’t figure out if it’s only Winston’s recall message or if Reinhardt also knows about her mother. She doesn’t know if his discretion is unnecessary or if anyone would really be keeping tabs on what a security officer and a crusader would say to each other. Either way, she finds an affectionate smirk creeping upon her face as she replies:

_As luck would have it, I am currently on leave now. Would you be available for lunch in two days?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Yikes, it's out on the internet now. I keep wanting to go back and fix everything because, honestly, I’m never going to be satisfied with this. I think I'm just annoyed that a lot of this chapter is simple exposition and not a lot of "major" events have happened yet.  
> -Fareeha’s section is abnormally short and I’m super sorry for that. Every chapter will have that one character who will get the smallest section and this time around it ended up being Fareeha since Ana’s funeral turned out to go faster than expected. Next chapter, Fareeha is going to have the biggest section since we’ll really start going into how she grew up in Overwatch.  
> -Have no fear, more characters will be coming!  
> -In case you didn't know, this story is named after Dylan Thomas's "Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night."  
> -Again, please tell me if any of the writing got confusing at any point. This switching between present and past tense thing is new for me, so I’m looking for any way I can improve the style.  
> -Please leave behind a comment if you have any thoughts you wanna share! You can also find me on [tumblr](miamaroo.tumblr.com)!
> 
>  **EDIT 4/8/17:** Went back and changed a few small details in order to help this align closer to the current canon. I won't do this for every update, but since we're still on the first chapter, I figured I could take the time to make the changes.


	2. Chapter 2

“Here’s your ticket, Mr. Morricone.”

Naturally, that’s not his real name or one he chose for himself all those years ago, but the old man running the ticket booth doesn’t know that. He doesn’t know that the infamous outlaw Jess McCree is standing right before him in the middle of the train station, serape and armor switched for a bohemian shirt and circular sunglasses.

Jesse’s kind isn’t welcomed on anything remotely close to a train, especially since he was blamed for the robbery a few months back. If he hadn’t stolen a few hundred from Kit’s bar (just enough to cover him for a month or so; he would never steal from a nice little lady like her if he had the choice), he wouldn’t normally be able to even afford the fare. But he doesn’t own a car and a cross-country bus ride will take too long. A little robbery here and there is a necessary sacrifice to keep anyone from cashing in his sixty-million dollar bounty.

Jesse puts on his best journalist grin and nods his head at the old man. His finger wants to tap the edge of his hat, but the old Stetson is buried deep within the duffle bag hanging off his shoulders. “ _Gracias,”_ he says, casting the Southern drawl from his words. He emphasizes the accent his mama taught him English with, dragging attention away from the tawny shade of his skin and to the smart, sophisticated cigarette balanced between his lips. Jesse McCree smokes cigars and drinks hard liquor like water. Joel Morricone is a self-professed naturalist who promotes clean eating and healthy exercise, but has a secret tobacco vice. The old man at the ticket booth doesn’t know that and is certainly exhausted from working the late shift, but he nonetheless reminds Mr. Morricone that the station is a nonsmoking zone.

Unlike Jesse, Joel takes inspiration not from cowboys and old westerns, but hippies and peace signs. He is a nosy freelance writer who is intent on advocating the merits of vigilante justice, so much so that he sticks his nose in anything dangerous. In that way, Joel is a bit like Jesse, but no one bothers to look that deep. They take one look at his notebook and camera and give him a slap on the wrist. Jesse isn’t allowed that kind of freedom.

At nine on the dot, the train pulls into the station. Jesse, sans cigarette, climbs on and finds an empty seat in the back. The Omnic Crisis lead to a fear of newer technology being turned against humanity, which led to a spike in old fashion conservativism. Military supplies had to be shipped around the country in vehicles that couldn’t be hacked by the very forces they were trying to defeat. Steam powered trains, upgraded to also run on solar power, appeared around the country. Their tracks zipped through mountains and over country sides. When it was all over, the trains were converted into public use. Too many people don’t trust the high-tech in cars enough to own one. Trains, subways, and buses are fashionable, if not necessary.

The night train is not empty, but the few people who ride with him spread themselves far away from Jesse’s seat in the car’s back corner. He places his duffle bag on the spot next to him and leans against the window. The world outside is an ugly white from the light from the platform. When the train starts moving, it blurs and mixes into the colors of the city until the train crosses into the black, New England forest.  He scopes out the other passengers. A homeless man naps in the middle seats. A young couple chats excitedly in low voices—young spirits making their first defying move against their parents. A few business men and women unhappy about the travel ahead. No families, no omnics.

The door connecting the cars open, and a man walks in. Jesse first notices the metal plating on his boots. The man—East Asian, serious, incredibly handsome—might be disabled and need special help to walk. Jesse almost believes it until he sees the size of his luggage. It’s large compared to the bag on his back, big enough for an instrument, but Jesse would put his money on it holding some type of rifle. He looks at the boots again. Metal plating and special grips on the sole—armor for a highly nimble soldier. The man’s clothes are modern and nondescript. Jesse does his best to study the piercings lining his ears and the high bun of his hair, trying to remember if there was anyone on Kit’s bounty board who remotely looks like this guy. Nothing comes to mind.  He files away other important details, like his clothes (worn, but recently purchased) and noticeable markings (a piercing straight through the bridge of the nose), until the strange man takes his place in the corner diagonal of Jesse.

He almost wants to laugh. Reyes always took the corner of whatever transport he road in, paranoid that someone would jump him from behind.

Jesse leans into his own cozy cove, deciding that if he acts like every other passenger, the strange man won’t realize his true identity. He crosses his arm over his chest, sighs, then lets his mind drift.

Southwestern United States is a bad place for him. The sandy red deserts and river-carved canyons are his home, but his wanted poster is tacked to every street post. He’s purposefully tried to keep his exploits in that area just so he can travel the rest of the states without being pinned down in every city. That, however, has only made the danger in the region worse. His face is too recognizable, and the persona of Joel Morricone can only protect him so much. Jesse glances around the car, ensures no one is watching (the strange man has his nose buried in a novel), before reaching into his duffle bag and pulling out his flask. He takes a quick, but filling swing. The rich, almost artificial cinnamon of fireball washes down his throat.  

Jesse created the persona of Joel Morricone when he first left Blackwatch. He needed to lay low for a few months, just until the worst of Reyes’s scouts were sent off on a better, more important mission. So he took a page from Reyes’s book and built up the persona of a man who was in the public’s eye just enough that he had excuses and alibis on his sleeve, but still anonymous enough that no one would blink twice. His side career as an investigative journalist was born. He lingered in public libraries and spent hours writing up small pieces about travel and home life—or at least, how he thought those things were like. His writings were just idealistic enough that he moved up the journalist hierarchy easily until he could write long news reports.

That is, until the day the screen of every holovid projected the image of the Swiss Base. Jesse suddenly found himself writing down the details of his life as Agent McCree through the inquisitive voice of Joel Morricone. It was strange. He was careful to only repeat what bigger news outlets have reported— _Overwatch’s destruction caused by long running jealousy from Commander Reyes—_ still hiding despite Reyes being a dead man. But that never erased the feeling that, despite going AWOL on the man who pulled him out of hell and more, he was finally betraying Reyes’s long coveted trust.

Jesse frowns, his metal hand wiping his mouth before scratching his unkempt beard. Things between himself and Reyes didn’t have to fall apart the way they did. There was a time he would have considered Gabriel to be some kind of father figure, a mentor to guide some kid with no name towards a better life. But that life wasn’t the one he wanted to live, and Reyes never looked at him as anything more than an investment. 

That investment began after the raid of the Deadlock warehouse. What was left of the Deadlock Rebels were rounded up and carried off to a van to who knows where, no sign of Miranda rights or anything close to a fair trial. However, Jesse—he lost the name Deadeye the moment his gun was knocked out of his hand—had a black bag shoved over his head. Foreign hands bound his wrists behind his back and patted every inch of his body for weapons. Never in his life had he felt so exposed.

During the long ride to whatever end the black-garbed agents had in mind, all he could think about was his fellow rebels. There was no doubt the men and women he wasted nights smoking and drinking with would be locked away with none of the judicial pleasantries. Despite being blinded and bound, the kid—the man with the gold eyes called him that when he was pinned to the ground, and it was the closest thing he now had to a name—could tell he was being taken to a van different from everyone else. He was tossed inside, his back banging against some wood crate, before another presence climbed in with him.

Boots scraped on metal and wood creaked as the spot on top of a crate was taken. “Sit tight,” the man with the gold eyes, the one who kicked his ass to hell and back, said. Outside the throes of battle, the kid could finally acknowledge how his voice was lighter than he thought it would be. It lacked all malice and military gruff. He couldn’t imagine it coming from such a scarred, damaged man. He had a better time believing that it belonged to an ordinary guy who lived out the Omnic Crisis far from any real conflict. “It’s gonna be a long ride.”

The kid rolled onto his side, feeling the blood from his split lip drip down his chin. “Fuck you, dickwad.”

Infuriatingly, the man with the gold eyes barked a laugh. “Nice try, kid. But you’re going to have to show some more respect if you’re going to get anything out of me.”

The kid snorted, rolling back on his other side. His joints ached in protest and, already, he could feel the metal cuffs cut into his wrists. The engine started and the truck lurched forward. The kid slid with it, grimacing when his face dragged on the uneven floor. Pain stabbed rigidly through his skin. He shouted a loud, Spanish swear that would have made his mama roll in her grave. This was going to be an awful-fucking ride.

The familiar sounds of a weapon being taken apart filled the air. The kid could imagine the man with the gold eyes looking contemplative as he took apart his shot guns, whistling as he cleaned each mechanism with care. “Close, but not quite,” the man said. “You can start by calling me by my name.”

The kid growl and swore in vivid Spanish again.

“I’ll throw you a bone then. It’s Reyes. Gabriel Reyes.”

Blood ran cold. Every swear, English or Spanish, the kid knew ran through his head.

There was a time when he was younger, too young to even think about gangs or guns. He sat on the tiled floor of his mama’s old apartment, eyes glued to the television as he watched a burly man talk to a reporter. The Omnic Crisis was nearing its end, all thanks to the brown man who spoke the same language as his mama—Gabriel Reyes. “Change the channel, _chiquito_ ,” Mama had said, sweeping around the bowls and pans she’d sat on the floor to catch the water dripping from the ceiling.  There was no rain in the desert, yet the ceiling always wept. _“Él no se va a hacer nada con nosotros.”_ Her eyes were sad as she stared at the screen and her son understood it to be the kind of sorrow no one could fix.

Reyes let him lay in silence for a long time, more focused on his weapons than the kid at his feet. Time lost its meaning as the weight of the situation finally settled on him. He never took inspiration from the Gabriel Reyes (not even one of the world’s most celebrated soldiers could cut through the lure of Deadlock’s quick and easy cash), but suddenly having his fate in the man’s hands was overwhelming. This was the commander who ended the Omnic Crisis. He could out smart machine, out-calculate computers programmed to kill. Now it was up to him to decide the fate of some poor nobody from nowhere.

It could have been minutes or even hours when Reyes finally spoke again. “How long have you been running with Deadlock kid? Has to be a long time considering people been hearing the tune of your name for years now. How old are you? Fifteen? Sixteen?”

Anger broiled deep inside the kid’s chest, but he found that he couldn’t bring himself to spit out any more insults. _Reyes_ meant _king,_ and he felt like the dirt-poor peasant with the gallows’ rope around his neck. He was winded, breathless as he balanced the dangerous edge between life and death. “Seventeen.”

“Almost old enough for the draft,” Reyes said, though more to himself.  There was a pause. “Where you from? Phoenix? Salt Lake?”

“Santa Fe.”

Reyes was quiet, as he should be. There the Omnic Crisis treated no one right.

A swell of bravo pushed up through him. “What else, jackass?” the kid spat, lifting his head a little to fully glare “My shoe size? Blood-type? Huh? How many times I’ve pissed?”

A steady exhale so light it may have been a sigh filled the air. The kid growled and ground his teeth, ready to lash out when heavy boots hit the floor of the truck. A few steps, then a hand was on the wrists bound behind his back. The kid kicked and screamed, but none of his strength compared to Reyes. The man easily unlocked one of the cuffs before clicking it around a rail above him. A prolonged ache burned around the kid’s shoulder joints as his right hand remain raised in the air as if he was a student with a question. Reyes yanked the bag off.

The light filling the back of the truck was dim and tan in color, but the kid winced at its onslaught nonetheless. He could see motes of dust sparkle in what little sunlight streamed inside.

There, squatting in front of him like the bumpy road was not making every crate shake like an earthquake, was Reyes. The scars marring his face were harsh, his full lips turned downwards in a frown, but his eyes were gentle. His fingers, though calloused, were soft as they wrapped around the kid’s free wrist. “I’m not going to lie to you,” he said. “You’re in one hell of a shit show.”

A trembling fear shot through his aching torso. “So what?”

Reyes turned his wrist until the black lines of his tattoo was revealed. The deadlock skull warped against bulging veins. The kid suddenly felt very exposed, lying in an old truck as Reyes dragged a finger over the design. “I know your type. The world was shit to you, and you responded by making it worse. But you’re different, kid. You don’t believe in any of that crap those thugs were telling you.”

The kid glared.

“I can see it in you. Most of the guys I deal with deserve what they got coming. But you were just some preteen kid that was desperate enough to take food out of the first hand that offered it. There’s still good in you. I don’t doubt that, but you have years’ worth of crimes to make up for.”

 “Listen,” Reyes said. “I can’t offer you the world, and what I do have for you isn’t going to make you that good person. If anything, my work will make you worse. But it’s a step towards redemption and towards that good you want to do in the world.” His eyes harden. “I have enough on you to keep you behind bars and far from any kind of sunlight for the rest of your life. Any smart person wouldn’t want that. But you have options. You can work for me and do something right, or you can go to jail. It’s your freedom on the line.”

Reyes stood. “You don’t have to like me. Hell, you don’t even have to believe in any of that crap. But the alternative is life in prison. Don’t be stupid.”

With that, he climbed back onto his crate. The kid watched him pull out his communicator and project a holovid into the air before him. The print was too small to read at a distance, but the way Reyes focused in on it made the kid feel like it was important.

Two hours passed with the kid laying on the floor and Reyes sitting on his crate. The truck rumbled onwards. The arm bound to the rail above him was sore to the point where tears welled in his eyes. The kid was sure there was no more blood circulating between those fingers. He wanted to cry, but didn’t. He wanted to think of a way out, but couldn’t. All he could do was think about Reyes’s offer and how it jammed itself into the forefront of his mind at any given moment.

He didn’t want to go to jail.

The thought was overwhelming. He never quite realized how little he’d live until this moment. He felt like he had been living on a conveyor belt that dragged him through a world where superior hands jabbed him with nails and screws until he was a certified, manufactured fuck up. Mama was dead, and he had nothing beyond the life of a gang member. Except, now he could jump off the pipeline and be something else. He didn’t know what the _else_ was, but it had to be better than life as a Deadlock Rebel.

“Okay.” The kid waited for a bark of laughter, for a voice to say this was one big trick, but Reyes just continued to read his reports. He cleared his throat. “I’ll do it,” he said, louder.

Reyes looked up. “Are you sure, kid? If you’re just saying that so that you can fuck off and try to leave, change your mind now. I only want you if you’re going to be serious about this.”

The kid swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing. “Yeah. I’m sure. I’ll join ya.”

The look Reyes gives him could almost be a smirk. “Alright.”

An hour from Watchpoint San Diego, Reyes had the kid unbound and sitting on the floor of the truck. A stack of papers sat between them as the kid went through them one by one, not reading but still trying to be careful. He pretended to not notice the way Reyes seemed prepared for him to agree, as if the question of his consent was never really there. He tried not to feel intimidated by the way Reyes pointed to his birth date and ordered him to change it. “Ain’t that—”

Reyes didn’t let him finish his thought. “Just do it. Whatever you do, I’ll protect you.”

And he did it. On paper, he was a few years into his twenties—old enough for the draft.

“You have to sign it all,” Reyes said.

The kid stared at the rest of blank lines where his signature was needed. He wasn’t Deadeye and he hadn’t been Yessica’s son since her death. “I don’t have a name.”

Reyes’s eyes flashed with pity before smoothing again. “Then make one up. I’ll take care of the rest.”

The kid looked at the way Reyes furiously typed into the holovid, trying to make arrangements for his new recruit. He could hear his mama’s voice inside his head, guiding him away from anything that could suck her son into a system of violence. Even now, he could feel the wood beads of her rosary weigh heavy on his neck.

When refugees from the Texas front fled to other boarder cities, Santa Fe saw its population turn from Rodriguez and Flores to Mc-this and O-that. There was a nice guy who lived in the apartment next to him who always talked about opening his own restaurant and naming it after himself. He was white unlike his mama, but the kid always wished that the kind old man was his father and not the deadbeat Mama scorned under her labor-worn breath. The kid remembered the way other, less kind white men with concrete teeth mocked Mama’s beautiful name when she did the house chores they scorned, mispronouncing easy, sugary syllables until the butchered sounds coming from their mouths was some other woman’s name. He remembered the way she grimaced and said it was just their lot in life.

When he signed the papers, it was as the mother who died with a name not her own and the old man who dreamed under a similar, weeping ceiling.

Finally, his name was Jesse McCree.

The train’s wheels scream against the metal tracks.

Jesse gasps for air—waking from a sleep he hadn’t realize he’d taken—as the sudden force of a train going hundreds of miles per an hour is forced to an abrupt stop. His prosthetic hand tightens on the arm rest until he hears the metal under the cheap cushion bend in his grip. Then, with a sizzling spark, he feels all sensation leave the robotic parts, traveling upward in a numbing snake until pain swells red hot at the metal base built into his stub arm. He hisses, clutching the aching part. He needs to pull it together. Whatever’s happening can’t be good.

Jesse grinds his teeth and forces his mind to focus on the other passengers. He sees how they brace themselves in their seats, voices rising in screams as the world outside their windows comes to a halt. The faintest trace of a sunrise paints the horizon, and the long fields of a Midwestern farm stretch around them.

With one last lurch, the train finally stops moving. Unlike what safety protocol demands, the overhead lights stay off and the doors remain sealed shut. Outside the window, a white cloud of steam billows into the air.

Jesse pants for a moment, then gets to work. He tries to unlatch his prosthetic hand from the armrest, but he can’t even wiggle his fingers. Chewing his lip, he reaches into his duffle bag and pulls out his Overwatch communicator. A few clicks of a dead button confirm his suspicions—an EMP bomb has knocked out all electronic devices, including his arm.  With the cornfields surrounding them, Jesse realizes that he’s stranded in more ways than one. Next, he scans the passengers for a possible culprit. No one is panicking, but everyone is loudly voicing all their concerns. Only the strange man in the opposite corner is keeping his cool, but Jesse can tell from the way his brows scrunch that this is not his plan. Or if it is, something has gone wrong.

Jesse looks between his frozen hand and his duffle bag. He buries his communicator inside, beneath his shirts, and prays that whatever button fiddling he did doesn’t come back to bite him. Peacekeeper is wrapped up in his serape, and he puts it where he can easily grab it. He’s tempted to free her early, but he decides to keep his cards hidden until he knows what the threat is. His free hand then latches onto his prosthetic one. Grinding his teeth, he tries to peeling his fingers off the ruined arm rest. His prosthetic, however, has always been capable of inhuman strength, and he can’t muster up enough force to loosen his fingers. Like a coyote with its paw in a trap, he’s stuck.

 On the other side of the car, the strange man takes charge. “We should try opening the emergency exits,” he says. He sounds like he’s trying very hard to keep his tone calm when his voice is made for someone who is always terse. Jesse watches as the man abandons his oversized case in favor of helping a woman lift a bright red latch. Jesse frowns. Did he overestimate him?

The door next to him hisses as the lock is undone. All eyes in the car turn to where Jesse is sitting, gawking as the door slides open. A familiar, purple figure steps inside, and Jesse nearly groans.

 _“¡Hola!”_ Like any good criminal, Jesse knows who Sombra is. At least, he knows what she wants him to know. He’s been to Castillo enough times to be well acquainted with the neon purple hardwire lining the side of her skull and the gaudy coat that matches it. She turns and gives the rest of the car a wave, wiggling each finger like they’re the snakes on Medusa’s head. “Sorry for the interrupted ride, but I heard an old friend of mine is on here and I just got to talk to him.” With the way the strange man stiffens, Jesse almost believes that he’s not the one Sombra’s going to torment today. That’s when she turns to him, brown eyes sparkling. “You’re a hard man to find, Joel Morricone.”

The gig is up and he gives a crooked look. “I ain’t hiding.”

Her smirk is cartoonish as her skinny leg kicks his duffle bag off the seat. They don’t break eye contact when she slides into the place next to him. “You all can leave whenever you want,” she tells the other passengers. “There’s a farm a mile west of here. You can call the police there, but that’s really not going to do much for you now.”

A few passengers hesitate, exchanging looks before one dares to rush out, luggage left behind. The rest fall suit, albeit with a funeral march’s gait. That is, everyone except the strange man. He drifts back to his corner, not taking his eye off Jesse and Sombra as his hands go for his music case. Jesse tries to keep an eye on him when Sombra snaps her long nails in his face. “Hey, Joel. Listen up.”

Jesse turns at her, frowning. “Excuse me for sayin’ it, but there ain’t anything good that ever comes from you stickin’ your nose in my business.”

“Hey, I thought we were friends, _amigo_.” She leans back in her seat, stretching her legs onto his lap. Her foot nudges his frozen arm, and she smiles when he glares. “And friends look out for one another.”

“Then git on with it.” He realizes too late that he’s switched back to his normal speech patterns, but turning it off now will only be more suspicious.

She rolls her eyes. “Patience, Mc—I mean, Morricone.” She quirks her brows, smiling as if to say _that was on purpose_. “You can’t rush an artist, and you wouldn’t believe the story I got for you on Gabe’s protégée.”

That’s new. When Sombra first made her appearance from the shadows, she took an immediate interest in Jesse McCree. She pestered him whenever she could, trying to uncover his true identity. Like most, she knew from the start how he was once Blackwatch’s dog, but she always seemed more interested in the nameless boy from Santa Fe. She aimed for the part of his life that still hurt. Yet, his time with Reyes always went unmentioned, as if she already knew, but never thought it was relevant. So, Jesse wondered, what changed?

“You’re talkin’ about the outlaw Jesse McCree,” Jesse says. He rests his free arm over his stomach. “What about him?”

“He’s been making too much noise,” she says. “Keeps on ruining Talon operations. Now the Reaper wants him gone.”

“The Reaper?” Jesse huffs. “That ain’t nothin’ more than some old legend.”

Her eyes grow hard. “He’s real. He’s—”

“I ain’t saying he isn’t. But I know what happened to the _real_ Reaper, and he’s been a dead man for years now. Whatever slicker’s parading around as ‘em ain’t the real deal.”

 She shakes her head. “If that’s what you want to believe, I’m not going to stop you. Just remember who told you first when you find yourself face to face with him in Deadlock Gorge.”

He suddenly sees how the pieces are connecting together. Sombra must have been the woman who harassed Kit that night, dropping hints he should go there. Her motivations are anyone’s guess. He looks at Sombra and sees that she already has her mind in another place, her long nail dragging over a projected, translucent screen. Despite the way it makes everything seem purple, Jesse clearly sees the picture of a man.

A man who looks just like the one on the other side of the car.

Jesse turns his head, barely missing the arrow that cuts a few stands of his hair as it flies past his face and into the back of his seat. The strange man is standing straight, his large case open and discarded to the side, and a large bow in his hand. Jesse wants to give a manic laugh. Of course it’s a bow. Why wouldn’t it be any kind of normal weapon? He expects the man to give some kind of demand, but he stands taut as he aims his next arrow into the space between Jesse’s eyes.

“By the way.” Sombra stands. The man jerks his bow, turning his aim against her. Lazily, she raises her hands into the air. She smirks and looks at Jesse. “Careful who you rob, _vaquero_. Especially when it’s someone with a lot of connections to people as deadly as you. One minute they’ll go from renting you a room to reminding everyone at her bar about that pretty little bounty on your head.”

She smiles. “Well, I’ll leave you and Shimada to it. _Adios.”_ Sombra wiggles her fingers and her body turns into neon pixels that vanish into the air. 

A moment passes as the man, Shimada, aims his bow back at Jesse.

Jesse swallows and holds his free hand up in the air. Then, like a bullet, the meaning of the name strikes him. “Wait! _Shimada_?”

* * *

As she watches the truck glide down a road lined by trees older than any book, Fareeha leans into her seat and tries to focus on anything but her mother.

The radio plays a jaunty, techno track Fareeha recognizes to be one of Lúcio’s old hits. She remembers when his album first came out, how his music seemed to bring a newfound smile to a world so tired of hardship. He was the central face of the favela riots surrounding Rio De Jeneiro. It was the first international incidence to occur after Overwatch’s demise. The world was rigid as the UN waited for everything to go wrong, for the world they represented to demand Overwatch’s return. But life-loving figures like Lúcio kept the riots from turning catastrophic. His music held the movement together, kicking Vishkar out of the favelas—and that’s it. No civil war, no massacres, no turmoil. That was years ago, and still people wait with baited breath for Lúcio’s next album to be released. Lúcio and all his stardom, however, is nowhere on Fareeha’s holovid. The grouchy truck driver letting her hitchhike across Germany pays her no heed as her good hand fingers down the projected screen, reading the news.

Last night, while she slept on the hypertrain that took her from Egypt to Germany, the world received communication from Ecopoint Antarctica for the first time in years. Fareeha remembers the speeches Jack and Ana gave when the research base was first opened, how her mother shook hands with the brave scientists who would be stationed there. It was back during the middle of the Overwatch’s height when Jack eagerly supported of scientific research. There was a strange symbolism to blizzard that destroyed the base and killed all the scientists. It was a warning of something worst to come, an end to a generation defined by change.

But now Mei-Ling Zhou’s face is on the screen. She says cryostasis saved her life, but left her coworkers to die. The news media says that the same tick in the system that made the old Overwatch communicators in the Numabani museum beep to life triggered her awakening. She is alive and well, all because of a system error.

But Fareeha knows that it wasn’t an accident. Winston’s message inadvertently saved Mei’s life. Fareeha wonders if Mei knows about the recall. She wonders how much the old farts at the UN know about Winston’s plan. How long did the agents have until they were found out?

Fareeha scowls at herself. Somehow, Ana has managed to wedge back into her consciousness. Fareeha knows that she has to think about it. Any reasonable person would take the time to consider the implications of what Ana’s reappearance means, but Fareeha can’t bring herself to do it. Every time she tries, memories flood her. She remembers her mother’s calloused hand rubbing circles in her back whenever nightmares wrecked her. The peaceful humming that fills the air as a teakettle sits on the stove. The smell of tea—green, herbal, oolong, black—consumes her senses if she is not careful.

So, she returns to the holovid and tries to think about anything but her mother.

The sun pushes through the thin arms of the pine trees, cutting gold through the air until hitting the truck’s window. They reflect off the hair ornaments framing her face as she leans back and watches the untouched woods pass her by. The driver pulls down his sunglasses as the sun starts to sink, grumbling as the tree-shaped car freshener hanging from the rearview mirror sways like a pendulum. He takes a fat finger and turns down the volume of Lúcio’s song. He tells her in German that they’re nearly at the edge of the Black Forest, that he’ll drop her off there before continuing on his route. Fareeha translates it to Arabic in her head slowly. She studied German in high school, but it has been years since she’s last attempted to even speak it.

All too soon, the truck comes to a stop and the driver tells her to get off. Careful of her broken arm, Fareeha slings her backpack onto her shoulder and climbs out. The truck hovers a few feet of the ground, and the drop is enough to make her stumble. She thanks the driver in German, worries about her pronunciation, then thanks him again in English. He tells her something she doesn’t understand, but the nice smile on his face says enough. The cawing of birds high in the branches nearly cover the noise of the truck gliding down the road, leaving not a single cloud of dust in its wake. Once it’s gone, Fareeha rolls her shoulders back and looks around.

The trees are thick and plenty. The bark covering their trunks make them look wrinkled with age. The air is cool as a small breeze pushes through the pine needles. A few dark clouds litter the horizon. A storm is coming. Fareeha adjusts the weight of the bag on her back before zipping up her blue jacket. Autumn is still some time away, but it’s much colder in Germany than anywhere in Egypt.

Reinhardt’s coordinates places him less than a mile from the main road in a ghost town that the Omnic Crisis destroyed. Despite her aching arm, the hike over is quick enough. She manages to pull a fallen branch off the ground and use it to replace the support her broken arm would have given her. Still, her cheeks are flushed and her chest heaves by the time she steps out of the tree line. She first notices the buildings. Old lattice windows broken from war, roofs caved from artillery. She pauses, looking up at the turning windmill, hearing its long vanes creak in the breeze. An old telephone wire sags from misuse. The battle of Einchenwalde was around twenty years ago, yet she’s still amazed to see how moss and greenery encroaches over the carcasses of defeated Bastion units. The rusted, orange armor makes her skin crawl.

Fareeha cups her hands around her mouth as she finally starts trekking into the destroyed village. “Reinhardt!” she shouts. “Are you still here?”

Birds jolt into the air, their flapping wings louder than a gunshot.

Fareeha rolls her eyes and tries again. “Reinhardt! It’s me: Fareeha! I’m here!”

There is a crash. Then, suddenly: “ _My little Fareeha_!” Around the corner of a building, Reinhardt comes running. He is as huge as she remembers, far above six feet and easily the width of her arm-spand. As he thunders over, large feet awkward with both size and age, she marvels at how old he’s gotten. His hair turned white a long time ago, but now she can see it thinning around his pale forehead. Wrinkles carve his strong face, detailed like a curtain’s fine embroidery. But the scar marring his cheek and framing his destroyed, white eye is as smooth as ever.

Fareeha can’t help but to grin, dropping her backpack and holding out her good arm. “Hey—”

He engulfs her. She notices her feet are off the ground a second before he spins her around like he did when she was younger and still living with her mom. Still, he’s careful of her broken arm, and his hold is strong and familiar.

She feels a fuzzy warmth swirl in her chest. Fareeha blinks, feeling the pressure gather around her eyes. Tears, she realizes. She’s going to cry. She tries to push them back, scrunching her face to stop the flow, but they slide from her eyelids and fall down her face.

When Reinhardt finally puts her down, he groans. “Ah, I am too old to be doing moves like that anymore.” He’s hunched down to her height, kneeling a little, when he looks and sees the tears on her cheeks. His face—one made for a warrior, one that has seen the world burn and destroy itself—softens in a way that is wholly him. “Ah, but you my dear—” His hands cup each side of her face. His palms are warm and his thumb swipes away a tear. “—you are not so little anymore. Now, now. No need for tears.”

She chuckles, a burning of shame in her gut, before pushing his hands away. “I’m sorry.” She bunches her sleeve at her palm and uses it to dry her face. “I don’t know what came over me.”

Reinhardt watches her for a moment. “It has been a very hard few days,” he says. “But there are good news ahead. Did you hear about the scientist in Antarctica?”

“She’s alive,” Fareeha says, still wiping even though it won’t do anything for the redness in her eyes.

“Indeed she is. If she is alive, then imagine what other good news we might get in the next hour alone.”

Fareeha almost asks him then what he is going to do about the recall. She almost looks into his dual eyes, good and bad, and asks if her mother had also sent him a letter.  He has always been close to the Amari family and, when Fareeha spent long years among military folks, one of the closest father figures she had. But before the words can leave her mouth, Reinhardt has his hand on the small of her back, guiding her towards whence he came. “Come now, you must meet Brigitte. She’s a smart girl. Very pretty. Very available.”

Suddenly, she’s laughing in the way only Reinhardt can make her. “I don’t have time to date right now.” Later, when she gets a moment alone, she swears she’ll talk to him about Ana.

Around the corner, his van is parked, hovering a few feet off the ground. The doors to the trunk are swung open and Brigitte sits at the edge, looking up from a mess of wires and gadgets to give Fareeha a dopey smile. The lass is younger than her. Her brown hair limp, and dirt clumps under the nails. She’s very nice. She takes to Fareeha immediately, wiping her oily hands on her pants leg before give a hearty handshake. “Reinhardt never shuts up about you,” she says.  Her grip is as tight as a wrench. “I half feel like I already know you.”

Fareeha’s smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “Oh, well. He does that with people he’s just met.”

“Actually, Brigitte’s been my squire for what must be four years now,” Reinhardt says.

She decides not to ask why she’s never heard of this until now. Instead, she ignores the wide eyes on Brigitte’s round face and asks what she can do to help. With Reinhardt trailing beside her like an eager dog, yapping in his loud voice until her ears ring, she builds a campfire inside an abandoned house with a hole in the ceiling. Smoke funnels through it in time for the gray mix with the black clouds that roll in. Fareeha barely helps them bring in whatever cots and food they’ll need for the night when the downpour starts. The rain is thick, smacking the ground with harsh droplets that could dent an omnic’s head.

Reinhardt insists Fareeha relaxes as he heats up their canned food. “If you move too much, you’ll only hurt your arm more,” he says, gesturing to her cast. He grins. “That is something your mother taught me.”

“Only you would need to be taught common sense,” she teases. Nonetheless, she settles against a splintering wood beam. The building creaks and groans in a way that is comforting, as if every loose floorboard and broken window pane is saying that it is still alive and willing to house.

Brigitte glances up from her tinkering, her thin lips pulling into a tight smile. “Your mom is the Captain Amari, right? Second in command of Overwatch?”

Fareeha fidgets. “The one and only.”

“I bet you have a bunch of cool stories about her.” Brigitte jerks a thumb towards Reinhardt. “The big guy here insists on telling stories over a campfire, so you better get started before he steals the show.”

As Reinhardt laughs without defending himself, Fareeha squirms inside her jacket. The layers are what keep her warm, but she feels restrained. Maybe if her arm wasn’t broken and heavy inside a cast, she would feel more at ease. It’s too early in the night to even be thinking about Ana. Once she starts, she’ll remember the folded letter sitting inside her backpack. She’ll have to show it to Reinhardt, telling him that the woman he loved is still alive.

But Brigitte is staring at her, legs crossed as she waits for a story. Fareeha swallows, feeling the udjat burn on her skin. The campfire highlights her cheek in orange as she takes a deep breath. This is just like when she was in high school and college, having to deal with the famous last name. She can just tell the story like she always does. So, as she rests against the wood beam, she does.

Ana Amari was a world class sniper long before Overwatch was even a glimmer on the horizon.

The world was in such a strong era of peace that, when the first few omnic uprisings began, no one wanted to call it a crisis. It was simply a malfunction in the coding, or an anomaly in a system proven to always be right. But when the omnics finally did rise together in a full rebellion, the Amari family was among the first to step up to defend their country. Ana Amari was the daughter of a war general and a military doctor. She was surrounded with siblings on both sides, and they all followed their parents’ footsteps to become soldiers.

For four years, Ana built up her name. She gave up everything for her duty. They say that she only went on leave once during her entire career, and it was so her father could fulfill her request to install a mechanical eye made for sniping. She made every inch of herself a weapon, and she gave herself to Egypt.

She didn’t tell anyone she was pregnant. No one really knew about her relationship with the field medic who came to the pyramids all the way from Canada. How she managed to hide it from so many, including him, is a secret that Fareeha never learned. Did Ana purposefully wear looser clothes, knowing no one would notice her weight gain? Were the higher ups so desperate for good soldiers that they could ignore the growing swell of their greatest’s belly? Fareeha can’t say. She does, however, know about her birth.

She knows that Ana’s water broke in the middle of a battle. She was perched at the top of an abandoned building, lying on her side with her eye to the scope. The pain was immeasurable, but she kept calm and did her job. She fired bullets into the processors of Bastion Units and Eradicators. She evened her breathing and fired between heartbeats, ignoring the way contractions ripped through her adnominal. When a sharp shooter omnic engaged her in a three hour sniper battle, Ana held her patience, waited, and won. All the while, her body demanded she pushed her baby out.  Only when it was over and the soldiers she had to protect were safe did she radio for help.

“Amazing,” Brigitte says, chin balanced on hand as she leans forward. “That takes some real guts.”

Fareeha can’t help but smile. “Yeah, she’s pretty cool.”

“Her mother has always been a feisty one.” Reinhardt’s voice booms, the echoes bouncing off the walls of the abandoned house. Fareeha swears that it’s his volume that makes the structure creek in weak protest. He hands Brigitte a bowl of something that resembles soup, talking as he dishes a serving for Fareeha. “I remember the first time I met Ana. It was the worst part of the crisis. I was one of the last crusaders left and I’d heard that the United Nations was making a team. This team was being led by no other than Jack Morrison.”

“Gabe,” Fareeha corrects. She takes her bowl, shaking her head as she balances it on her knees. “Gabe led the Overwatch team at first. Everyone knows that.”

Reinhardt is silent for a second, his good eye focusing on the pot hanging over the fire. “Yes… I remember now. Memory is no friend to an old man like myself.”

The crackling fire and pelting rain is the only sound for an unrelenting moment. Brigitte looks between the man and Fareeha, eyes wide with concern. Fareeha chews on her lip, unsure what to even say. She’s not even sure why they’ve all fallen so quiet and so suddenly. A graveyard silence fills the air for a beat longer before Fareeha picks up her spoon and drags it along the bottom of her bowl. The scraping of metal on metal resembles the quick dinks of bullets ricocheting off metal armor. “Mom always tell me this one. I can retell it if you want,” she offers.

Reinhardt gives her a weak smile. “That, I believe, would be the best solution.”

Brigitte snorts. “He’s letting someone else talk. I can’t believe it.” Her grin is almost childish when she scoots forward a little, eager to hear the next part. Fareeha takes a deep breath and starts.

Yes, it was the worst part of the Omnic Crisis.

Humanity was losing, and they were losing fast. That was when Gabriel Reyes from Los Angeles came to the United Nations. Rumors said that he and a fellow super soldier had defected from the United States military, only to reappear in Texas. Together, they rallied the troops into defying their orders and were able to push a hefty portion of the omnic forces across the southern border and out of the United States. To the United Nations, Reyes promised to end the crisis; all he needed was time to assemble a team and permission to do what they needed. In any other situation, he would have been scoffed at and turned away. If he’d made his offer sooner, he surely would have. But Gabriel Reyes was smart and he came to them at the perfect time—when all hope was almost lost.

The world needed a hero. He promised every representative he could make a team of them. All they had to do was declare that humanity was not yet ready to give in to extinction. They looked at each other, deliberated, then said yes, humanity is not ready to die out.

So he gathered his team. He brought his right-hand man, Jack Morrison—a brother in arms from the Soldier Enhancement Program. He requested the greatest designer from the Iron Guild and was given Torbjörn Lindholm. He wanted a crusader and Reinhardt Wilhelm was the only one left. He got Gerard LaCroix, cryogenesis expert Liao, and others to fill the ranks. And for his sniper, he only wanted the best.

Ana Amari was one of the last to arrive. On one shoulder hung her sniper riffle, the other a sling that cradled her baby daughter.

Every time Ana told the story to Fareeha, she always emphasized how hostile the atmosphere was. When she reported to the main chamber of the United Nations building, she first saw the skeptic eyes of the world’s representatives. Then, sitting at a table below them, she saw the mixed expression of her future team mates. She always told Fareeha that she knew exactly why. They asked for a merciless sniper. Instead, they got a mother.

Reinhardt was the first to vocalize his concerns in a booming voice that seemed louder than a gunshot. “The battlefield is no place for a baby.”

Ana replied, “It is no place for any human.”

Jack Morrison said, “I don’t know how things are done in Egypt, but we’re here to end this war once and for all. We need men and women who are willing to give everything to defeat the omnics. You can’t be more worried about when to change diapers.”

And Ana stood just a little taller—a hand on the back of her child, the other loose at her side. “If I may,” she said, and the room stirred like a rumbling storm. “Everything you just said is utter bullshit. This isn’t a war, it’s a slaughter. I am not here to mindlessly fire at the enemy. The tattoo under my eye is not simply for looks. It is an oath that I do whatever in my power to protect those who must be protected—whether it is a squadron, my daughter, or even a hotheaded Lieutenant like yourself. I am here to operate as overwatch for you and for those who need us. And I would end this by saying ‘nothing more,’ but there is nothing above overwatch. It is the highest duty one can ask.”

The representatives broke into a scatter of conversations. Baby Fareeha on her breast stirred, letting a little noise out before Ana immediately patted her back and hushed her. When she looked back up, she saw Gabriel Reyes’s gold eyes boring straight into her. He said something into Jack Morrison’s ear before asking the chairman to restore order.

When it was silent, he spoke. “For those unaware, overwatch is tactic where a small unit provides support for another unit,” he said. That was when she saw the smirk creeping up his face. “And you, Captain Amari, are exactly what I want. I want someone who will provide overwatch not only for my team, but for the world. I would be honored to have both you and your daughter on my force.”

“Did your mom name Overwatch?” Brigitte asks.

Before Fareeha can explain, Reinhardt laughs with such a loud boom that the fire dances to its beat. “I don’t think anyone can answer that for you. We were all so very drunk the night it was decided.”

Fareeha wants to say that Ana wasn’t drunk and told her how Gabe selected it, when Brigitte puts her empty bowl to the side. “Do you think it’s going to be renamed now that it’s being put back together again?”

Like that, the merry warmth of the room leaves her completely. She gawks at Reinhardt as he shakes his head and talks about the glory of a legacy. He accepted Winston’s notice for recall. He’s going to become a part of the new team. She puts her own bowl to the side, freeing up her hand so that it can cover her mouth and run through the strands of her hair. The gold ornaments framing her face knock against her cheeks, and she swears that their cool metal is hotter than her clammy skin.

“Fareeha.” Reinhardt is looking at her. His brows are set low on his face, and his eyes look at her with an unspeakable kind of pain. “I know what must be on your mind. I am very old. My time has long since past. Whatever consequences this will have, I will bear it with pride. When you are as old as me, you’ll come to understand the importance of having one last stand.”

She repeats his words over in her head, realizing the implications. He wants the recall to succeed, but a wizen part of him knows that it will fail. Every new member of this new Overwatch will be arrested for international terrorism, as deemed by the Petras Act. Reinhardt has always been Overwatch’s greatest defender and critic. Now, he is ready to battle against that windmill.

Too late, she realizes that she needs to respond. “I get it,” she says, hasty to get the words out. “I just… I’m just worried about you. I don’t want to see you get hurt.” On her cheek, her tattoo burns. “You’ve done so much for me. Now, I just want to protect you.”

He smiles in that way only he can manage as the fire casts an orange pigment on his skin. He seems otherworldly, hunched as he presses his weight into his thighs, hands clasped loosely between his legs. “You have a promising career ahead of you, one that may become greater than your mother’s. The greatest gift you can give me is to protect yourself. Stay away from this. When we go down, don’t let them take you down with us.”

It is only later, when they are trying to sleep to the melody of the falling rain, does Fareeha truly understands what he means. She turns her head to the side, her broken arm laid heavy on her chest, and watches Reinhardt’s bulky form rise in fall in the steady rhythm of sleep. By answering the recall, he’s already a part of Overwatch. If she were to stay away, she would have to give up being around him. In the back of her mind, she hears her mother’s beautiful humming and remembers how Reinhardt used to lift her up and spin her in the air until she swore she was flying higher than any bird.

Fareeha squeezes her eyes shut as if she’s in pain. She can’t imagine having to live a life without Reinhardt in it. Not after losing Gabe and Jack, not after the death of her mother. Except, she reminds herself, her mother is still alive. Fareeha can feel her a thousand miles away, humming that tune she adores as withered lips sip at the edges of a porcelain cup.

* * *

The surgery is a failure.

Angela marches out of the operating tent, face and hands washed clean as the Mediterranean breeze drenches her. The late summer sun is abundant in the thick air, mixing with the bend and pull of the waves. The patient is a refugee, teenage boy who’d manage to come to this little camp in Ilios with his family. The stub of his leg where a crude prosthetic had been attached had gotten infected on the journey over. She and Ovid operated for hours, trying to save as much of his leg they could. But like always, she was too late. Now she and her omnic assistant must talk to the family about amputating what is left.

There’s a crick in her neck, and Angela stops to lean against an ancient column and roll the pain out from the spaces between her bones. She feels restless. Within the next few days, her term at Ilios will be up. Her belongings are all packed up, ready to be shipped back to her apartment in Bern until she finds another organization in need of her assistance. In the meantime, the world famous university at Oasis is hosting a world conference, and she’s been invited to come and speak about her past developments in nanobiology. Another organization wants her to talk about the refugee problem infecting Eurasia and the lower Americas. A celebrity she can’t remember the name of has sent her numerous letters requesting that Angela at least listen to the cause she’s vying for. Angela can already feel that the conference at Oasis will be more trouble than it is worth, but being a public figure is all part of her duty as a doctor.

And it’ll occupy her for a while longer and keep her mind away from the heavy lump of the communicator in her coat pocket.

Angela sighs, gives up on trying to get rid of the stubborn crick, and continues her way back to her tent. She’s not use to this—feeling lost. When she was young and studying in college, she had such a clear direction in her life. The tour Jack Morrison gave her of the Swiss Headquarters ignited a brushfire of motivation within her. She was still too young and inexperienced to join the prestigious ranks, but she knew that being a part of the image Overwatch was creating of the future was where she wanted to be.

So, she worked for it. She got more degrees and expanded her knowledge. She made it her business to know every inch of the human body—what it could do, what could happen to it, how she could fix it. She was twenty when she decided she’d learn enough. Angela’s critics—and she had many, especially with how her association with Overwatch brought about her greatest innovation—always  highlighted how she got her beginning position at one of Switzerland’s best hospitals by using her name. She can’t deny it. Her parents were not medical geniuses, but they were good doctors. Being a Zeigler got her foot in with the best in the field. But no matter what anyone said about her, no one could dispute that it was her expansive knowledge of medicine that brought her to the top. She turned herself from poor war orphan Angela into the world class Dr. Zeigler. No amount of connections to the dead or prayers to an unaswearing god could take that achievement away from her.  

Ten years had passed from that day in the quaint café when Jack Morrison appeared in her office again. His stature had only manage to grow larger, his reputation border-lining mythological. His suit was crisp. The leather of his gloved hands was warm in her grasp and he shook her hand. “Good job Doctor,” he said, and she knew it was a job offer.

Jack had only asked her to be a medical researcher. He wanted her to give everything she had to making the battlefield safer for his soldiers. She told him she wanted to be trained for combat. She hadn’t put much thought into what her conscience said. In her mind, whatever it had to say wouldn’t have mattered. The only way she could know what soldier needed was by being out there with them. She knew she was the best chance they had, and there was only so much she could do for them behind comfortable doors.

For a year, she trained with the new recruits. She learned how to climb walls and navigate barbwire. She was handed gun after gun and taught how to aim. By day, she learned how to kill. At night, while the rest of the recruits slept in musty barracks, she retreated to her lab and did her research work. Under the watch of the moon, she dissected data and wrote instructions for the work she needed a few assistants to do when she returned to the muddy practice field the next day to do it all again.

Her first time in on a battlefront felt like a dream. A very loud, very conscious part of her brain saw the way explosions made the sands of Egypt furl into the air. Glints of bullets dashed past her, missing some targets but hitting others. The sun made the yellow sands and buildings seem bleach white. Yet, she calmed herself and did her work. She moved where she was told to. When a solider got a bullet in the arm, she pulled out her medical kit and got to work. Her fingers shook. It was the sloppiest bandaging she had ever done in her life, but it kept the man alive. When an omnic from the attacking radical group rounded the bend and aimed its gun at her patient, her pulled out her pistol and lodged a bullet in its circuits. That time, it felt good. Later, when her assailants were human, the memory of the blood and glassy eyes left her kneeling in front of the toilet with an empty stomach billowing in guilt.

But from all those experiences, she knew what combat medics needed. They needed not only to keep their solider patients alive, but get them back into the fight as soon as possible. So within a year, she was presenting before Jack Morrison her preliminary research for nanobiology. It offered a way to speed up the body’s natural healing capabilities, using as little artificial chemicals as possible to force the body to heal itself. Injuries like broken bones would still need to be set first, else risk the bone healing wrong, but it was the start of a new age of medicine. He smiled, patted her back, and called her the greatest mind of the generation.

When Gabriel Reyes, amid a drunk tirade, jabbed an elbow into Gerard’s shoulder and said that most combat medics die not from being in the middle of combat, but from being separated from the rest of the team, Angela took note. When a the gaunt, tired faces of people caught in the middle of the fight see the agents of Overwatch and only looked more helpless, she noticed. By the end of her second year, she was approaching Torbjörn with her plan. “It’s going to be something completely good,” she told him as she described biblical angels to the man. “Something simple enough to do its job. I just need your help.”

 And he looked at her, grousing as he scanned her sketches. “This is the silliest thing I’ve ever laid my eyes on and I’ve known Reinhardt for years,” he said. “But it will do you good.”

Soon enough, she was showing Jack Morrison the wings of the new armor for combat medics. In her hand she held the Cadueus Staff, and she offered it up to him as if it was a sacred relict. Jack ran his hands over it, brows raised. “This is incredible work, Doctor,” he said. It was winter at the Swiss Base. Outside his office window, pure white snow piled into an idyllic blanket. “This will save hundreds of lives. But I am curious—why the angel theme? I never took you to be the religious type.”

Angela chuckled, then tilted her chin a little higher. “I used to be religious, sir. But that was a long time ago, a few years after my parents passed away. I used to pray every day for the crisis to end. I was a child and a part of me believed that if I just did it enough, God would answer my prayers and bring them back. Naturally, that didn’t happen. I remember deciding one day that I wouldn’t depend on anyone to do anything for me again.” He laughed, and she felt her smile grow a little bigger. She never said it out loud, but she felt like some of the other scientists at Overwatch didn’t like her. They read her past papers on the evils of militarism and glared at her like she was a spy. But there were still many who took her altruistic nature at face value, none so much as Jack. When he praised her, she felt like she won the world. That silly, childish part of her that stopped praying and started studying felt validated whenever she could make him proud.

“But most people aren’t like me,” she said. “They need the otherworldly. They need the hope it offers them. If being the emblem of that hope helps them to live just a little longer, then I will gladly bear that mantle.”

Jack stared at her. His job often left him so tired, but now he looked ten years younger. “You’re a good person, Angela. Probably the best around.”

To this day, the very thought of the compliment brings her a swell of comfort. No matter what happens, she is still good at the end. Good to the core, all the way through.

She reaches her tent all too soon. She takes deep breath of the fresh air before ducking under the shaded canvas. Suitcases that rattle with her belongings sit at the end of her cot, orderly as they wait for the day she leaves. On her desk sits a cold cup of coffee she didn’t get a chance to finish before succumbing to exhaustion last night. She picks up the Styrofoam cup, sniffs its roasted stench, and suddenly feels very tired. She shrugs and chugs as much of the cold coffee she can, desperate for the caffeine, before gagging.

She tosses it into the waste basket, bracing herself at the edge of the desk as she coughs. Her fingers brush her small pile of mail. She looks at it, coughs again, and recognizes the handwriting at the top of the pile. Her heat skips a beat, and she feels silly for that being her first reaction.

She takes it delicately in her hand, the paper envelope feeling fragile under her chewed nails. Snail mail went back in fashion during the Omnic Crisis, and it is one of the few anachronisms that she treasures. It allows her to physically feel his presence in her life, a solid reminder than the turbulence in his life hasn’t made him forget her.

Angela sits at the edge of her bed and sticks a thumb under the paper. Inch by inch, she pulls it open and finds the letter. It begins with her name and ends with his— _Genji Shimada._ Like all of his letters, he starts by responding to the worries her previous letters had given him. He tells her that he is doing fine, that his machinery is giving him no issues. He reminds her that he is still traveling with the monk Zenyatta, and that his favorite ice cream is bubblegum because he feels like no one appreciates it enough.

Then, in a paragraph with brevity that surprises even her, he tells her how the death of Mondatta has affected his master. There are a series of protests that have sparked up in King’s Row in response to the assassination. The atmosphere there is unsteady. Zenyatta will be traveling to help ease the disquiet in the people’s minds and speak at a special memorial being held for the monk. _Times are changing,_ Genji writes. _The world seems to be on the brink of something huge, and it will be up to every person to decide if it will lead to peace or more chaos. You have helped to bring harmony to me even when I was the most reluctant to hear it. If you can join me and my master in King’s Row, I will be forever grateful._

On a line separate from the rest: _I have missed you greatly these past few years and, more than ever, I wish to see you again._

Angela puts the letter down and thinks. She doesn’t think that there is anything someone like her can do for the people and omnics of King’s Row, but Genji has faith in her. Her chest aches in a way that makes her feel silly at the thought of missing an opportunity to finally see him again after so long. She wonders if he has truly achieved the inner peace that he has written to her about numerous times.

She chews her lip. She can squeeze in a quick trip to King’s Row before having to go to Oasis. She can see Genji again.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -I’m so sorry for taking so long to update. My life got really messy. I’m doing okay now, and hopefully I can stick to updating chapters of this more frequently.  
> -Jesse’s section got way longer than I thought it would have, but it is the infamous Joining Blackwatch scene, and I really needed to do my own take on it. You’ll notice that I’ve started to acknowledge Jesse and Gabe’s cultural identities and let me just say that I do not want to cross any boundaries I’m not supposed to. After a horrifying experience in a writing workshop with a girl whose attempts with deal with race ended with her being racist, I’m really afraid of doing the wrong thing. But I do need to acknowledge it since it is a part of who they are as people (and you’ll notice that this fic is partly a character study). So if I’m doing anything wrong that needs to be changed, please tell me so that we can work for a better story.  
> -I love Fareeha. That is all.  
> -Genji and Hanzo are finally players in the story, but rest assured that they are more characters who will be making appearances.  
> -Lorde's new album is god and has fueled my entire creative process.  
> -Please tell me if you see any editing mistakes. I’m horrible at beta-ing my own works!  
> -Feel free to leave a comment below! I’m a slut for feedback.  
> -Check out [my blog ](http://miamaroo.tumblr.com/)for more content and stuff. Also shout out to [@someghostkid ](http://someghostkid.tumblr.com/)for being a great writer, and [@silverbearclaws](http://silverbearclaws.tumblr.com/) for helping me with Spanish.
> 
>  
> 
> **Thank you for reading! Have a great end of June and start of July!**


	3. Chapter 3

“Wait! _Shimada?”_

The archer straightens his back, brows furrowing as his eyes narrow. Jesse wouldn’t say that his glare is cold, but it points like a sharpened knife. Shimada holds himself in a way that suggests years of rigorous training, yet there is an unbidden emotion undulating under his skin. He makes the rest of the empty train car feel crowded. Jesse would bet his life that whatever training this guy has undergone, it never fully erased an emotional core.

From the way his morning is going, Jesse muses, gambling his life seems like the likely outcome.

Shimada tightens his fingers and takes a steady step forward. “Yes, Shimada,” he says. His voice echoes across the rows of seats—strong and sure. Sunlight cuts through the window and glows white on his face, bringing out the sparse grays in his beard. “That is who I once was.”

“Ah, neat.” Jesse presses his lips and bobs his head. He’s the perfect image of a man caught in a situation he doesn’t know how to deal with. Meanwhile, he tries to convince his prosthetic hand to at least wiggle a finger, but the EMP bomb seems to have jammed the wiring. Mentally, he curses the day he ever stepped inside the bar and met Sombra. Knowing a purple-themed hacker who could feasibly do a few favors for you was not worth the amount of trouble she’ll put you through.

He looks Shimada in the eye. If he can keep the guy from splitting his face open with an arrow for long enough, he might just have enough time to come up with a plan. All he has to do is find that one flaw to probe.  Jesse clears his throat and tries to be the congenial guy. “You actually ain’t the first Shimada I’ve had the pleasure of meet—”

A sharp pain slice across his cheek and a loud _thwack_ hits the wall next to him. Jesse jerks his head to the side, a reflex more than anything. He feels his hot blood inch down his skin. An arrow is embedded into the plaster by his head, and the shaft vibrates a low note. He raises his free hand once again in the universal sign of defeat.

“Silence!” Shimada grabs another arrow from the quiver on his back. His eyes glint in victory, and Jesse sees it—cockiness. Shimada thinks he’s already won. “Next time, I will not be so merciful.”

Jesse looks down and sees where his duffle bag has fallen to the ground. The arrow next to his head stills as a plan brews. “Y’know, you’ll get a prettier penny for me if you take me in alive,” he says, slow and careful. Testing waters. When Shimada doesn’t seem as ready to fire another shot, he tries his luck. “Listen—I’m a brave enough man to admit when I’m beat. I got a dead arm here and no weapon. There ain’t no way I’ll ever beat you in a fight.”

Shimada raises a brow, but doesn’t say anything.

Jesse points to his duffle back in the ground. “Now, I got this pretty little gun in there, but it’s my prosthetic hand that I aim with, so it won’t do me much good.” That’s a lie, but Shimada wouldn’t know that. “But I do have a flask in there that I would mighty like to have a swing of right about now. One last drink before I get turn over for that sixty-million. Promise that once I do, I’ll go with you nice and easy, no trouble.”

“And why should I believe you?”

“On my mama’s life, I’m a man of my word.” He grins. “Besides, I’ve got a good head on these shoulders. I know when I’m beat.”

For a moment, Jesse doesn’t think he’ll take the bait. Then Shimada’s brow furrows and he gestures down at the duffle bag. “Kick it into the pathway with your foot. I will take your flask out for you.”

Jesse does so. It feels all so easy. Hanzo unzips the canvas and rifles through his stuff, finding the gun wrapped in the serape with no problem. He peels back the cloth and observes the silver barrel, admiring the craftsmanship of the handle, before wrapping it back in the red cloth and setting it on a seat far from Jesse’s reach. He pushes pass a few shirts, a carton of Morricone’s cigarettes, a wood rosary, and a taped-together paperback before pulling out the cheap flask. He uncaps it, making a face when he smells the contents. “A fitting drink for a criminal,” he says before handing it over.

Jesse plays a little scowl on his lips. “Can’t ya give a man some slack? Your little plan already got me pinned to my seat.” He takes a long swing of fireball. The artificial cinnamon overwhelms his senses, but he holds as much of it in his mouth as he can before spitting it back into the flask—a fake drink.

“It was by pure coincidence that I encountered you in such a state,” Shimada says. “I would not have known you were here if not for that woman’s… _interference_.”

It takes all of his effort to keep his brows from jumping up his skull. Bit by bit, that hacker’s web reveals itself. Sombra wasn’t working with Shimada directly, yet she came onto the train knowing he was going to be there. Why would she bring Jesse to Shimada, especially if she knows that he’s only going to worm his way out like he always does?

He almost doesn’t go through with his plan. He considers letting Shimada drag him to the nearest police station just so he can understand the archer’s role in this trick a little better. But there is a fake Reaper waiting for him at Deadlock Gorge, an active Overwatch communicator in his bag, and he doesn’t have the time to deal with this. So he smiles like it will be his last as he holds up his flask in toast. “Well, that’s Miss Sombra for you. Always ruining people’s lives.”

Shimada gives him a flat look. “Are you finished?”

“I’ve had my fill, but you’re more than welcomed to take a swing for your first spoil.”

Jesse doesn’t know if Shimada would’ve taken the offer or not. He doesn’t give himself a chance to find out. When Shimada puts his bow to the side and reaches forward, he’s met with a face-full of fireball. Shimada screams. Instinctively, he drops his bow and goes for his eyes, trying to rub the burning alcohol out as he stumbles away.

Jesse tosses the empty flask to the side, watches Shimada writhe long enough to know he’s incapacitated, before getting to work. He reaches upwards and yanks the arrow out of the wall. The point is still sharp. With a yell, he jams it into the space between the plates of his prosthetic. Wires are severed, and his fingers unlatch from the arm rest. He’s free.

The cowboy surges to his feet. His bones creak with every movement and his prosthetic swings dead at his side. Shimada has caught himself at the edge of a seat, unknowingly blocking Peacekeeper from Jesse’s reach. Jesse tries to raise his foot, but his dead prosthetic sends him off kilter.

“Shit!” Jesse braces himself on the back of the nearest seat. Using it for balance, he kicks his leg and jams his foot into Shimada’s gut. That finally sends the man onto the ground, arrows scattering from the quiver.

Jesse grabs the serape-wrapped gun. The cloth is familiar under his hands and the weapon’s weight is comforting. He raises it, serape and all, and aims at Shimada. The man is half way back on his feet, eyes red and irritated as he glares at Jesse. His muscles tense, prepared to fight back, but there is a new look on his face, one not happy about the circumstances but accepting of his defeat. The serape makes it difficult for Jesse to wiggle his finger to the trigger, but he knows his weapon better than he knows himself. Once given the excuse, he’ll fire.

Time stops as they stare at each other.

For a moment, he considers shooting Shimada. One bullet between the eyes and no one would have to know that Jesse McCree was spotted on a training heading westward. But then again, he’s also desperate for cash. Maybe if he uses a few of the zip ties in his bag, he can carry Shimada to the nearest police station and check for a bounty. If he slips back into the persona of Joel Morricone, the guys in blue wouldn’t think twice about it.

But then, there’s Sombra. She’s taunting him—daring him to go to Deadlock Gorge to see a fake Reyes. She knew he was going to be on this train, then made sure he saw the picture of Shimada on her screen. It’s like she was showing him who he needed to take out in order to return whatever favor she claims she’s giving him. But is she using him to take out Shimada or the other way around? Whose side is she on? If he knows one thing about Sombra, it’s that she’s rarely on the same team as him. More likely than not, he and Shimada are pawns in her game.

Jesse grinds his teeth. He’s being used. They’re both being used.

“Well, shit.” Jesse lowers his gun. Shimada’s forehead creases in confusion, body tensing more than ever when Jesse takes a step back and squats down to his bag. The hand on his dead arm brushes the ground, and he suddenly doesn’t know how he’s going to escape when he only has one hand. He sighs and wears the façade of a man who couldn’t care less. “Listen partner—I would love to kill ya. It would make my life ten times easier in the long run. But see here, that little lady from before is trying to play us like a fiddle.”

Shimada’s stance loosens when Jesse lowers his gun. More confusion masks his features as Jesse takes his eyes off him, rambling as he struggles to zip up his bag and swing it onto his shoulder. “Now, I’m a simple man with simple needs, but I know a trap when I see one. That woman is Sombra. Have you heard of her? It’s fine if ya don’t, but she’s an infamous hacker and she’s got some big plan going on that involves one of us beatin’ the other. Don’t know about you, but I frankly don’t wanna be involved in any of it.” The bag is heavy on his back, but at least it’s there. Jesse groans, a pain in his bad knee, as he rises back to his feet. Shimada snaps like a wound up toy, reaching for his bow once again.

“Whoa there!” he says, raising his hand once again. Shimada pauses, heavy bow tight in his grasp. Peacekeeper is back in his bag. He wonders if taking the pacifist route was a bad idea. “I’m tryin’ to say that I don’t want to fight you. I’d rather die than do a favor for Sombra.”

Shimada looks him up and down, silent. The sun dances on his sharp jaw and cut cheek bones, and Jesse vaguely wonders how the right lighting can make even the toughest soldiers look like gentle giants. “You do not desire to fight me,” Shimada says.

Jesse does not hesitate to give him a relieved look. “Fighting’s _no bueno_.”

They hear the helicopter first, but it’s the distant wail of police sirens that make the hairs on the back of Jesse’s neck raise. In tandem, both he and Shimada run to the nearest window. The mingling sea of passengers part so that an army of police cars and trucks can barrel down the line of trains. Jesse swears, jumping away from the law enforcement’s sight. Shimada does the same, though he is silent as he begins to gather his scattered arrows. One by one, they are shoved back into his quiver before being locked into his oversized music case. All the while, Jesse stands stalk still.

Reyes would be disappointed in the way he’s acting. Blackwatch trained him to know on instinct the quickest solution to any problem. But even Reyes would have trouble accounting for the fact that outlaw Jesse McCree is credited for a train robbery he never committed. Any officer responding to any train related crime is going to be looking for his smug face. There’s no way he’s going to get off this train in one piece.

“Why do you stall?” Shimada’s voice is so sudden that Jesse almost believes he imagined it. But when he turns, he sees the man kneeling before his case, locking his bow safely inside. Jesse can feel his gaze going up and down his frame, inspecting it. “Ever since my travels have taken me to his country, I have heard of nothing but your cunning. Are you truly beat?”

Jesse almost laughs. Shimada talks like someone who learned stiff, proper English in a classroom—someone who knew too many words but not how to use them. It’s completely different from the loose banter Genji would throw at him (that is, when he was having one of his good days). “I wouldn’t say so just yet,” he says, dropping his bag to the ground. The zipper is loud as he pulls it down. “Was just hoping that I could have an easy start to the day.”

Shimada hums. Jesse hears his metal boots scrap on the ground as he returns to his feet. The mood drops, but he doesn’t dare look up from his bag. He needs Peacekeeper to fight his way out, and he can’t let Shimada’s almost quiet steps to distract him. “Mr. McCree,” Shimada starts, but Jesse cuts him off with a grunt.

“Jesse’s just fine. No need for formalities.”

A tense breath. “ _Jesse—_ you chose to spare my life when you had the opportunity to claim it. Allow me to return the favor.”

Jesse looks up just in time to see the side of the bow coming straight for his face. His hand is around the handle of his gun, and he barely has it raised when the intricate metal design is bashed into his face. It strikes with the force of a baseball bat, fills his head with pressuring pain, and sends him crashing to the ground.

Distantly, he hears Peacekeeper skip across the train floor, and the emptiness of his hand fills him with a new sense of fragility.

He’s not necessarily unconscious yet, but his whole body feels as though it’s in a haze. Jesse feels his body be lifted off the floor of the empty train. The pain is too present for him to think clearly, but he manages to keep his eyes open a slant as he’s carried towards the police. There’s curt words exchange, and he hardly hears Shimada say something about his bounty when colors blur together. For the first time in a long time, Jesse starts thinking about Genji. He wonders what the kid would say if he knew that Jesse was being given up by a member of his family. Jesse realizes that he doesn’t even know this Shimada’s first name.

With that final thought, his mind slips into an endless black.

First, the gentle hum of a car pushes through the haze.

He’s lulled by it, caressed by its familiarity. His eyes are still too heavy to open. He can hardly call himself conscious. Instead, he merely lets himself doze where he was lain, soothed by the movement of the car.

Maybe it’s the song playing on the radio. Maybe it’s the knowledge that he’s in a car. He doesn’t know and he doesn’t care. He simply feels himself fall out of this body and into a puddle of memories that coalesce into the sensation of being McCree—the one who rode with Reyes out of Watchpoint San Diego on their rare day off.

A month had passed since McCree signed on to be Blacwatch’s newest secret. His life became a hectic mess of sweat and orders, days beginning with joining whatever drills were going on the base’s grounds. He finds himself running and lifting more than he ever had in his life. Flocking with Deadlock did nothing to prepare him for the way his legs would shake at the end of the day, and how the dead pain of his tired arms would make it nearly impossible for him to sleep. Sometimes, Reyes was there to bark commands, mock agents for their weakness, and give McCree extra drills. But most of the time, it was just McCree in the middle of a squadron of agents who already considered themselves brothers. They could see the tattoo on McCree’s arm and understand that the age on his papers was a lie, but they kept their suspicions to themselves. It was safer to pretend the new army brat wasn’t there than risk invoking Reyes’s wraith.

Of course, a few didn’t have that good sense. McCree never started any of those fights, but he would be damned if he wasn’t the one who ended them. Too many times, after whatever superior officer caught them in the act finished yelling at him, Reyes would be alerted and dragged to the infirmary. “Army life is a whole lot of gritting your teeth and picking your fights,” Reyes would say, watching McCree press an ice pack to his black eye. “Right now, you’re not shit. Calm down, learn to take a snide comment or two, and don’t make me regret giving you a chance.”

A week or so into his time on base, Reyes started having McCree spend the second half of his day with the mechanics. These were the days that McCree would look back upon fondly. Reyes, without a pressing mission to sort out, would relax in a spare chair in a corner as he read a novel. Over the paper brim, he supervised with amusement as a few grease-covered mechanics tried to teach McCree. When it became obvious that being in Deadlock taught him all the kid needed to know, they started to simply give McCree a truck in need of repair and let him at it. Dealing with screws and oil put McCree in a state of what anyone would call ease. Turning wrenches and crawling under machines unwound him, left him happier than he would have thought possible. Sometimes, McCree would look up from a busted engine to see Reyes watching him—not with suspicion, but something that he couldn’t name.

And that was the _thing_ about Reyes. Most of the time, McCree didn’t understand what was going through his head. All of his fellow rebels were straight forward people. After a day or two, McCree simply _knew_ the pattern of wires in their brains. Reyes, on the other hand, eluded him. McCree imagined his mind to be something like a fingerprint—a maze in its own right, but completely unique. If McCree planned days ahead, Reyes thought in decades.

So it was almost unsurprising when, a month in, Reyes didn’t wake him for the five o’clock drills. He waited until McCree woke up on his own a few hours later, looked up from the novel he read on the empty bunk opposite from him, and raised a brow. “Get up and get dressed.”

Reyes signed out one of the civilian cars and, like that, they were driving past the watchpoint’s walls in a small van. McCree had fantasized about how he’d leave the stupid base and shitty Reyes behind, but never did he think it would happen while wearing the man’s baggy clothes and with stupid Reyes driving. They sat in silence as the car glided over the road.

Reyes turned on the radio and fiddled with the stations. A country station came on. “You like this stuff, right?” Reyes asked.

McCree glared at him, then shrugged. He liked music with guitars, sure. But that was nothing compared to the blare of trumpets that matched the thumping of an excited heart.

The closer they reached downtown San Diego, the worse the traffic was. They were at a standstill, surrounded with cars, when Reyes turned down the radio volume. McCree looked at him and saw the way he pressed his lips, thinking. It was a different kind of thinking from the commander who yelled at him to do fifty more pushups than the rest. It was a cautious deep breath, an in and out, before Reyes reached into the pocket of his jeans. “You’ve been doing great this past month, McCree.” He pulled out an envelope and handed it to him. “This is your paycheck. It’s military pay, so it’s shit. But if you save it, it’ll build up fast.”

McCree snatched it from his hand, and checked inside. There was a check with his new name on it. The number on it wasn’t big, but it made a sudden burst of pride swell in his chest. He earned money. Legit, legal money.

“We’ll get you a bank account when we get to Switzerland, but like I said, be smart and save it.” The car moved up a little, but not enough to really make a difference. Reyes pulled out another envelope and gave it to him. “ _This_ is the stuff we’ll be spending today. You need your own clothes, shoes—probably a belt or two—and a few things to call your own.”

This time, when McCree looked inside, it was filled with cash. He counted through it, growing more and more amazed with how much was inside. “What is this?”

“Hmmm?”

“Where the hell is this money from, _sir_?”

Reyes grinned. He almost looked proud. “Well, you got seven years older by joining me. Call it birthday money.” Years later, McCree would realize that it was Reyes’s own cash, but at that moment he only felt more peeved that Reyes was being cheeky. Reyes grinned at him. “Why the frown? Appreciate what you get, ingrate.”

When they managed to park at last, Reyes dragged him to the nearest department store. Like a ghost, he stood to the side as he let McCree pick out whatever clothes he wanted, only speaking up to remind him that Switzerland was colder than the Southwest. McCree chose a pair of boots that reminded him of home, and even found a decent brimmed hat to keep the sun off his face. “You’re dressing like a real cowboy,” Reyes said.

“Is that a bad thing?” McCree shot back, not bothering to look from the rack of belts he perused.

“Depends. It’s like you want everyone to know you’re from Santa Fe.”

“And?”

Reyes shrugged, but ultimately chose to remain silent. It put a bad taste in McCree’s mouth.

One of the larger buckles got his attention. McCree pulled it off the rack. He wasn’t an idiot. He knew that there were plenty of kids who saw the Deadlock Rebels and wanted to be like them. They didn’t care about the robbing or dirty work—they were just small punks who liked the idea of breaking the law. He knew that fashion companies had smacked their logo on shirts and backpacks, but he’d never seen it before. He ran his thumb over the cheap metal design. The same skull tattooed into his arm glinted back at him. Even miles from the watchpoint, he could feel the distrustful stares of the other agents. He could remember the times Reyes told him to roll down his sleeves.

He bought the buckle. Reyes wanted to say something—had everything to say about it—but only took a deep breath. The unspoken argument did more damage than any yelling match they could’ve conjured. It sat like dead weight between them as they pushed down the narrow streets, quiet amid the bustle of seaside tourism. Above, seagulls cawed and swooped.

Reyes tapped his shoulder. “In here.”

Inside the bookstore, McCree felt out of place. He never went to them much, not even growing up. He only ever read books Mama swapped at the local Goodwill. He got his stories either from the television or Old Man McCree. He even liked the idea of reading, but he never had the nerve to actually buy himself a book. He didn’t think he was smart enough to. He stood silent by Reyes as the man idly browsed a tabled covered in paperbacks. A sign declared them to be the perfect summer reads.

Reyes was reading the summary on a novel with a beach on the cover when McCree cleared his throat. “Reyes?”

“McCree.” He didn’t look up from the five-starred reviews.

“Why are we here?”

“Because books are important and you need a few.”

He scowled. “I ain’t stupid! I can read!”

“Calm down. That’s not what I meant.” Putting the book aside, he sighed and gestured to the store. It could have been the buzz of the white lights above them but, in that moment, Reyes looked older. He brimmed with the energy of a wizened man, not tired but certainly smarter. “Look—there’s not a single omnic in here. You go to places like Hollywood or even New York and the place is crawling with them. There’s some real idiots out there who say that omnics are just like you and me. Nuts and bolts can, apparently, be programmed to have souls just like the rest of us. It’s a load of bull, McCree, and I’ll tell you why—they can’t feel like we do. Omnics have to be programmed to do anything. They can fix computers better than we can or, hell, aim a gun better than us. But that’s all just java script. They can’t look at art and feel something about it or just because they just enjoy doing it.”

He picked up a book at random and tapped it to McCree’s chest. “Art and literature is the last thing we have to prove our humanity. This stuff is important. It’s here because we can experience something from it artificial life can’t. Don’t read, and you’ll reach a point where you’ll start to feel sorry for those dime-a-dozen tin cans.”

Reyes dragged him to the shelf with all the classics on it. He pushed McCree to grab a big book he could read on his breaks ( _A Tale of Two Cities_ by Charles Dickens) and a small one to take on long missions ( _All Quiet on the Western Front_ by Erich Maria Remarque). McCree didn’t think he would ever have time to read either of them, but his choices seemed to make Reyes happy.

A shiny omnic ran the cash register, but McCree didn’t comment on it as he paid. From the corner of his eye, he stared at its shiny metal face. He didn’t know what he felt.

Lunch was hot dogs from a vendor. They carried it to the nearest beach. Despite the thick layer of clouds, the dunes were covered with people seeking summer fun on a gray day. They found a bare spot away from the tourists and sufferers where they could sit with their bags and food. It was the first time McCree ever saw the ocean in person. He always imagined the moment to be monumental, even life changing. Instead, it was a wretched, noisy place filled with people and seaweed. The water wasn’t even blue.

Reyes swallowed his bite of hotdog and relish, a bit of green sticking to his beard. “So.” He wiped his mouth with a napkin before tucking it under his thigh. “Anything else you want? A camera? Video games? Knitting needles?”

McCree ignored the question. “Why shouldn’t I look like I’m Santa Fe?”

He sighed. “Is this about the cowboy comment?”

“Everyone dresses like that where I’m from,” he continued. “It’s not weird. I bet people dress like this in Texas or Nevada.”

“They probably do, it’s just…” For once, Reyes was at a loss for words. Shaking his head, he balanced his hotdog on his lap so that he can use his hands. He spoke with his hands a lot, McCree noticed. It was the one quirk that made him seem human. “There’s nothing wrong with being a Santa Fe cowboy, but you are going to be surrounded by people who are going to expect you to speak for the entirety of Santa Fe. If you do something wrong, everyone does something wrong. It’s bullshit, but that’s just the way the world is. I want you to be yourself, but that’s not a burden I think you’d want to handle… There’s a reason why I say I’m from Hollywood even though my family couldn’t even afford to sniff the air there.”

For a long moment, McCree said nothing. A breeze picked up from the ocean and chilled his face. “I ain’t stupid ya know,” he said. He placed his hand over his arm, rubbing the muscle there in what would become a nervous habit. Hand on arm, a burn of heat would push through his veins. McCree could feel himself sitting in his mama’s apartment, watching her watch Overwatch consume the news. He could see Reyes’s grinning visage quiver on the digital screen. He could still hear Mama’s disapproval.

Mute, he reached into the nearest bag. He pushed past the folded clothes until he could finally pull out the hat. It wasn’t made from the same leather as the hats Old Man McCree would wear, but the style was the same. He stuck it on his head, smirking at Reyes as he tipped the brim downwards.

Reyes cracked a grin, then chuckled. “Alright,” he said, leaning back. “Message received, cowboy.”

Music.

Jesse blinks, then squints. For a moment, he can’t make sense of the dim light above his head or the stiff cushion on his back, but then memories of Shimada and the train come back to him.

He jolts, alert. He’s lying in the backseat of a car, his long legs bent off the seat and onto the ground. There’s a pounding in his head that eases with each agonizing beat. The lights inside the car are on, brightening the interior until he can see nothing outside except the black of night. The radio’s going—an old country song that reminds him of Reyes. Jesse looks and sees his bag on the middle console and Shimada, sitting in the driver’s seat, rifling through it.

“Hey.” Jesse’s throat is dry and his voice is nothing more than a desperate croak. He tries to sit up, but the pain in his head returns. He grunts and falls back down. “Dontcha mess with that.”

Shimada pauses. He’s a different man than the one on the train. While he’s still guarded and keeps his bow within easy reach on the seat next to him, there’s less grandiose in his confidence. He acts less like a trapped soldier and more like a businessman. “Ease your worries, Jesse,” he says, resuming his rifling. “I am merely searching for tool to repair your prosthetic.” It’s then that Jesse feels the weight of his metal arm on his stomach pressing down on his gut with a blunt force. “I assume that a man like you would accustom yourself to maintaining your own.”

Jesse takes a moment longer to assess the situation. As far as he can tell, he’s not in custody with the police. The car is old, lacking in most of the technology Sombra would looking to hack. He runs through every other possible scenario Reyes taught him, but he’s still left with the simple fact that he’s unbound in Shimada’s used car with the archer intending to repair his arm.

As he tries to sit up, he decides to wing it. “It’s with the first aid kit,” he mumbles. He’s about to wonder why he doesn’t feel as sluggish as he should when he sees a used nanoboost shot on the ground. One of those is like Angela’s healing technology. Instantly heals and leaves the recipient feeling refreshed. He wants to ask how Shimada got his hands on military-exclusive technology, but then he hears Shimada announce he’s found the first aid kit.

Shimada opens his door and climbs out. Jesse gets a moment to see the tree right outside the car and the dark cornfields beyond it when Shimada opens the door next to him. “I have experience in technology,” he says, taking a seat next to Jesse. “Allow me to fix your arm.”

Jesse decides to be blunt. “Why are you doing this?” he asks, leaning away from his touch. “Didn’t ya just knock me out cold with that bow of yours?”

“I had a plan that would have taken too long to explain,” Shimada replies, opening the kit. “And one that you would not have gone with, if my suspicions are correct. I informed the police that I had captured you and wanted to turn you in for the bounty. I insisted on being taken to the station with you and, once we were a distance away, I took care of the officer escorting us.”

“That is the dumbest plan I’ve ever heard.”

“That is why it was much easier to simply knock you out.”

“I’ll guess you drove the cruiser as far as possible before stealing another car to make your get away.”

“Yes.” Shimada tilts his chin upwards. “I also switched the license plate with that of another car I found on a farm twenty miles down the road.”

The strange brilliance of Shimada’s mind makes his mouth twitch into a smile. Most people don’t know their plates’ number, much less check them every day. “Gonna hafta add that one to the books.” Finally, the frown overcomes him. “But the one thing I don’t get is _why._ Why would you go through all this trouble to save me?”

“To repay my debt.” Shimada pulls a screw driver from the kit and reaches for his arm.

Jesse jerks away. “I’ll be takin’ care of that, thank you kindly.” He doesn’t care how angry Shimada is when he rips the kit from his hands. He leans forward, pushing past a few shirts in his bag blindly before pulling out a small box of cigars. “I appreciate everything you’ve done for me today. Truly, I do. But even I know that’s bullshit. What are ya aiming for, Shimada?”

The radio switches to a new song. A gentle woman sings about how brighter days are ahead and how tomorrow will be kinder. She’s soft and comforting, a stark contrast to the way Shimada’s brows furrow in frustration. Once, Jesse read in a book how some people just have old faces. They may be youthful or just a child, but they have a face belonging to a different age. Now, despite the undercut and facial piercings, Jesse feels as though he is looking at a reflection of a world before omnics and their war. He chews on the end of his cigar and he digs into his pockets, looking for his lighter.

“While I do not shy away from the man I once was, there is a certain degree of anonymity I would like to maintain,” Shimada says. “You said so yourself this Sombra person planned on using our abilities against each other. I need to know why and if there is anybody else I must concern myself with.”

Jesse rolls his eyes as he finally discovers his drugstore lighter. “So you want me to tell you where you can find Sombra,” he finishes as he finally flicks the flame on and lights the end.

He inhales a long drag of tobacco, thinking. If Shimada is asking for help, then he doesn’t know about Sombra’s base of operations in Castillo. Jesse could just tell him what he wants to know and be rid of the guy once and for all. But that still leaves him with too many lose ends, big details that he’s not sure he can risk leaving alone. Thanks to Shimada’s stupid plan, the police know for sure he’s in the area. So he now has to find a way to Deadlock Gorge all by himself without the train and with federal officers hunting him down.

He leans back, tilting his chin upward before blowing out a long stream of gray smoke. Maybe this is the true secret to Shimada’s brilliance—debilitating his means of escaping alone while seeming to help him. He’s going to need help, if only to make some part of his life just a little bit easier.

“I’m not sure if she’s going to be there,” Jesse says, “but she’s been goading me towards Deadlock Gorge. I have a few other places you can check afterwards, but I have a gut feeling she’ll be there making sure that her plan works out just fine.”

Shimada scowls like he knows he’s being played. He studies Jesse’s face, scrutinizing every wrinkle for some hint of deceit. He has to see it, Jesse thinks to himself. He knows too much of his reputation not to know it. But whatever risks he weighs doesn’t outdo the reward. He sighs. “Fine. We will embark to Deadlock Gorge.”

Jesse chuckles as he climbs out and back to the front seat. “You’ll be fine in my hands, Shimada.” He moves his cigar to the side of his mouth before looking down at his arm. He’s not going to be much use if it’s not back in working order. He reaches for the nearest screw driver and starts undoing one of the front panels. “Which reminds me—what’s your name? Need to know who to curse when you stab me in the back later.”

A hearty laugh leaves the archer, and Jesse can’t help but to smirk. “You may call me Hanzo.”

“Alright, Hanzo. You know who I am, and I know you. We’re all set.”

Hanzo hums. “Indeed.”

The silence is unsettling. Jesse feels content leaving the conversation there, but he can feel the way Hanzo resists filling the air. He considering asking him questions just to ease the atmosphere, but his arm hangs heavy on his shoulder. Taking a deep, smoky breath, Jesse takes off the front panel and gets to work. Under the fake light of the car, he digs tool after tool into the workings of his prosthetic, trying to mend the wires he had cut. The woman on the radio is still singing about the happier days coming her way, and Jesse hums along, wishing tomorrow will be kinder.

* * *

As they drive into Eichenwalde, Reinhardt tells Fareeha about the Bastion unit.

“It had been years since I have ever heard Torbjörn so upset,” he says, using that low baritone he reserves for long-winded stories. “A Bastion Unit all the way in Sweden—somehow reactivated after all these years. Strangest part is that it seemed completely docile. Loves birds and plants and doesn’t seem to realize it has a giant gun attached to it. Torbjörn’s watching over it now, but he believes that it had to have come from somewhere in the Black Forest. Eichenwalde is all there’s left to check.”

Reinhardt sits with Brigitte at the front of the truck, his squire driving as he gestures through his tale. Fareeha kneels in the back, a hand braced on his seat as she listens. His shoulder almost blocks her view of the ancient castle in the window, the crumbling gray stone growing ever closer. “So you believe that someone may have reactivated it?” she asks.

“Well, there’s no other solution,” Brigitte says, not minding how the question was not directed towards her. “Robots don’t just turn on all on their own.”

Fareeha can’t argue, especially since Reinhardt starts flailing his arms wildly. “Ah! But imagine a world where it’s not true. It could be a magic spell, or even the work of an evil prophecy!”

She shakes her head. He never changes, and she can’t decide if that’s a bad thing or not. Feeling her sore shoulder struggle to bear her cast arm, she leans against the seat and rests. She closes her eyes and forces Reinhardt’s voice into the background. It reminds her of the nights when she was too young to be left alone on base. Ana would have her sit in on important meetings that would last long into the night. Often she would fall asleep on Jack’s shoulder, listening to Gabe and Gerard craft strategies she didn’t have the vocabulary to understand. Her mom would comb her fingers through her hair and hum that song she adores.

She doesn’t realize she’s humming it herself until she feels the soft tap of Reinhardt’s hand on her head. “Sorry to disturb you,” he says, craning his neck so that his good eye can look down at her. “But tell me: what is that song? It’s very familiar.”

“Yeah, it’s really nice,” Brigitte adds despite the fact that this conversation does not involve her.

Fareeha shrugs. “It’s just something Mom used to hum to me.”

Reinhardt’s face drops. “Yes. I remember now. It’s such a lovely tune.”

The wistful gleam of his eyes tells her that he doesn’t know its name. She can’t even remember its lyrics, she tells her bitter self, but it still stings. This was Reinhardt, the hero on the poster and the man at her breakfast table. Why can’t he remember something so vital about her mother?

Her phone rings the guitar line her favorite Pink Floyd song. Fareeha grumbles as she fishes it from her bag. Tariq’s picture flashes on her screen. A gnawing worry settles over her gut. He should be at Helix right now. If there is a problem at work, he would be using the company phone. Swallowing, she accepts the call. “Fareeha speaking.”

 “Lieutenant,” he says, voice unsteady. “Where are you right now?”

She frowns, a bad feeling welling in her gut. If he was calling her by her rank, this was for work. “On mandatory medical leave,” she replies. “I’m visiting an old friend.”

“Alright…” Someone says something in the background, and she hears him place his hand over the receiver to reply. When he returns, he’s noticeably calmer. “Listen—is there something going on that we don’t know about?”

 _The recall,_ her mind supplies. Although he can’t see her face, she smooths her features and smiles. “I’m not sure I understand what you mean.”

“Some people from the UN are here asking for you. They’re trying to see if they can get anyone permission to check your apartment off-campus.” Her heart drops. “The higher ups are giving them shit for it, but I think they might just give them some go-ahead just so that our contract with them doesn’t get destroyed.”

She glances over her shoulder. Brigitte is engaging Reinhardt in some debate about music. They’ve forgotten she’s there. Still, she lowers her voice. “And they haven’t said why they’re looking for me?”

“They look like serious business. I can try bribing one.”

“That’s dubious, if not illegal.” Fareeha chews her lip. This has to be about the recall—she can think of ten different ways the UN could have learned about it. But she is only the daughter of an Overwatch officer. Why would they think she has anything to do with it? She can’t even probe Tariq for answers. The less people who know the truth, the better it will be for everyone else. “Are these actual UN people or are they contracting outside help?”

“If I had to guess, I think it’s some mercenaries from the United States, but they got at least three officials with them,” Tariq says, to no one’s surprise. The UN had replaced their special forces with Overwatch nearly twenty years ago, but the act that disbanded the organization failed to instate a new task force to do their bidding. The UN is all but required to contract private organizations—Helix Securities among them. It’s almost a given that some private group of mercenaries would be barging into their headquarters in search of her.

Fareeha takes a deep breath. She runs through a mental list of everything she keeps in her Helix dorms and Cairo apartments. Nothing will point them towards where she is and who she’s with. Beyond a few photos of her childhood she keeps taped to the walls, there are no signs of Overwatch. “I haven’t done anything wrong, if that’s what you’re asking. But I need you to keep quiet where I am until this whole thing blows over.”

“None of this is instilling confidence,” Tariq says.

“Just trust me.” Fareeha doesn’t understand what Reinhardt suddenly announces, but whatever it is makes Brigitte pull over to the side of the road. “Keep me updated on the UN too. Whatever they tell you, I want to know about it.”

“I’ll do my best. Stay safe, Lieutenant.”

She smiles. “You too, Tariq.”

When she ends the call, she’s met with the sight of Reinhart wrestling his too small seatbelt off his chest. He swears up a storm, rocking the truck with each jerk but to no avail. Before Fareeha can process what is going on, Brigitte goes for where the buckle had tangled with the seat. “Let me in there,” she says, only to be swatted away.

“I’m not senile. I can handle this myself!” Reinhardt declares before the belt smacks his face.

“Stop being stubborn!”

Reinhart roars, ripping the buckle free and taking some of the cushion fabric with it. White cotton spills like guts, revealing yellow foam beneath. The lumbering giant gives a loud “a-ha” before lunging out of the truck and dashing into the woods. Fareeha leans over the seat, gawking as the foliage dances behind him. “What the hell—”

Brigitte groans, slumping into her seat and turning off the engine. “He’s just going to the bathroom. I swear his bladder gets smaller every day.”

Fareeha knows that it’s rude to stare, but she can’t help it. She’s so used to the chirper squire who jumps at any opportunity to try to make the world feel better. Now she’s seeing someone barely out of their teen years scowling as she picks disdainfully at the spilled cotton. She checks over her shoulder without really knowing why before swinging over the seat. She slides into Reinhart’s place easily and starts collecting handfuls of cotton. “He’s always been a handful,” she says. “It’s amazing you can deal with him one-on-one every day.”

Brigitte snorts. “If he keeps wrecking my truck, I might not have to any longer.”

Fareeha amazes herself by laughing.

Brigitte sit up, wide eyes even bigger. “I don’t mean that,” she adds quickly.

She grimaces. “I know—”

“He’s literally the best guy I’ve ever met.” She feels like she’s back at square one, watching Brigitte squish little bits of cotton in her hands as she explains. “Yeah, we’re running on a shoe string budget and no one really gives a damn what we do, but he’s doing so much good. No one else cares about the small towns but him, and—”

“I get it,” Fareeha says. Once again, she finds herself toeing the line between liking the girl and being completely fed up with her. A part of her just wants to choose a side and stick with it. Ana was infamous for never wavering from her beliefs. If she didn’t like you, it was your problem. “You don’t have to like someone fully to work with them. But you do, and that’s great. But you’re allowed to have arguments and put your foot down.”

“Oh trust me, when I put my foot down I put it down hard.” Brigitte pauses. She stares at Fareeha as if she can untangle everything about the woman with just her eyes. She shrugs, and the air around them is awkward. “Truth be told, I’m not, well, like this all the time. Reinhart talks about you like you’re his world and, well, I just want you to like me.”

 Fareeha can’t help the way her lips curl. “I get it,” she says, because that’s the most there is to it. She doesn’t know a single person who hasn’t scrambled to make someone else like them. Except, perhaps, her mother. Ana was a magnet. People liked her on instinct. She was a natural leader. But while her positon as Jack Morrison’s right hand was a good one, it was a sad day when she got it.

Fareeha was too young to understand what she had witnessed at the time, but she has a good enough head to piece together the tale when she was older. When the Omnic Crisis was declared a victory, Overwatch’s founding code had to be changed. The unopposed power Gabe had received was reeled back by the UN. That Gabe was alright with, but he loathed the idea of his team being made into the UN’s errand dogs. The last few years of the war had Gabe acting against the UN’s expressed wishes. In their eyes, he was an uncontrollable force of nature. Why keep him in such an important post when they couldn’t leash him back in and make him smile prettily for the press?

Ana didn’t always agree with Gabe, but she knew he was the best tactician they had. Most of Overwatch’s original team believed so as well. One by one, each member declared that they wouldn’t be a part of the reformed Overwatch if Gabe wasn’t guiding them. One of Fareeha’s earliest memories had her in the conference room the UN allowed them to operate out of, sitting on the floor and clipping the hair off a doll Gerard had given her. In the background, Jack declared his loyalty. His graveled voice ruptured through the air, making her glance up from the doll’s military buzz she worked so hard to make perfect. Ana seemed to be the only one to notice her, and she gestured for Fareeha to join her on the couch.

Fareeha did so, climbing onto her mother’s lap with her doll in hand. Ana’s arms wrapped around her like a buckle, locking her by her side. Itchy bits of the doll’s hair stuck to her arms and legs. She wanted to brush them away, but didn’t want to disturb her mom’s warm grasp.

 Gabe had his elbows on his knees, clasped hands at his mouth. “Actually, I think the UN is on to something,” he said.

Gerard huffed. “A pack of politicians with nothing better to do is never good.”

“No, hear me out—the UN wants me out of my post no matter what, but they have to replace me with one of you. Torbjörn and Liao: you two are out because you’re both technically not soldiers.” Gabe looked at Ana. “Being a mother and having the tabloids get a hold of your divorce records makes you a controversial choice. And Reinhardt’s talked back to them as much as I have, so that’s moot.”

Said man launched into hearty, congratulatory laughter.

“That would leave just Gerard and Jack,” Gabe continued. “Gerard—you might actually make the cut since you got nepotism on your side. Or at least, you would except that they need to reassure the public that whoever they replace me with can do just as good of a job, if not more.”

Ana rolled her head, moving her hair out of her face. “They’re going to ask Jack.”

Gabe grinned at his partner. “SEP, the current second in command, and no experience in politics. Just a soldier that can take orders.”

Jack frowned. “Well excuse me for being a decent human being and not a little shit.” Ana shot him a glare. Fareeha didn’t understand why. “That still solves nothing. They’ll still kick you out.”

Gabe grinned like a jack-o’-lantern. “And I’m going to make the best of it.”

The plan from then on had been simple. Gabe let himself be ousted from his position, seemingly stiff as his right hand man take over. Then, instead of staying in the ranks, he stepped back from active duty. The press went insane with the following news. Commander Reyes would much rather uphold a safer position behind a desk, working administrative positions wherever Overwatch needed him. He would be sent to whatever watchpoint needed his eye. The news had a field day. Tabloids fabricated a story of a jealous man resentful of his loss. Why else would a genius step out of the picture if not for a wounded pride?

But it was all a front. While the world believed Gabriel Reyes was all but retired, he worked. He replicated his original vision of Overwatch in a specialize team he dubbed Blackwatch. He had all the authority once had before, but this time secret and bestowed upon him by Jack. Even out of power, he won.

But all plans come at a cost, and the true unspoken price of Jack’s appointment to strike commander had been Ana’s pride.

Once he moved up, Jack needed his own right hand. Ana was the logical choice. She had all the skills and brains to be the Overwatch’s captain. She accepted the role knowing that her opponents would say her appointment was a political move to appease nonwhite populations. A few tabloids took to claiming that her daughter was actually the results of an affair between her and Jack Morrison. Many old soldiers stuck in older times took the idea of a woman in military leadership as an insult. None of her charisma could save her from her critics, and it would take years of perfect leaderships and good PR to put the controversy to rest. But until then, Ana bore it all with an impassive smile and a hand on her daughter’s shoulder, unaware that her daughter could hear it all without knowing what any of it meant.

But that was ancient history. Instead of a conference room floor, Fareeha is in the seat of an old truck, watching Brigitte fiddle with the bits of cotton. Her hand is filled with them, pushing against the gaps between her fingers as she holds on tight. She’s more than used to people wanting her to like them. Military is politics, and she grew up surrounded by it. Like all those times before, Fareeha loosens and leans into a persona of ease. “You don’t need to try to make me like you,” she tells Brigitte. “I like good people, so if you’re a good person then we’re set.”

Brigitte smiles. “Thanks. You can be so scary, so I didn’t know for sure.”

“You can’t make it far in the Egyptian military looking nice.”

“Speaking of which.” Brigitte levels her gaze. “Are you alright? I overheard that phone call earlier and you sounded really worried. Do we need to take you to the nearest town or something to sort it all out?”

She can’t help her pained look. “It’s nothing in particular. I work at Helix Securities and one of our contractors was just giving us a hard time.” It’s a variation of the truth; better than a lie. “Can you do me a favor and not mention it to Reinhardt. He’s already worked up enough about the bastion unit. I don’t want to bother him with work matters.”

When she and Jesse got in childish trouble together, he always told her to keep her cards close to her chest. Don’ lie, but never tell the truth unless you can handle the consequences. They’re the brave words of a certified scoundrel, and it’s strange enough to think of how useful they become in times like this. Reinhardt already wants her gone to keep the UN off her trail. Once he finds out that it’s already happening, he’s sure to send her back to Egypt and never speak to her again. Fareeha knows she can’t go through another loss. She lost her makeshift family to the chaos of Overwatch’s collapse. She can’t lose what little she has left of it.

Except, a voice in her head chides, she has her mother once again. Even if she loses the pieces she adopted, she now has the woman bound to her with blood. She hasn’t lost everything, not yet.

“No, I get it. My lips are sealed,” Brigitte says. “He does have his weird version of a savoir complex.”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

Fareeha can’t think of anything else to say. From the way Brigitte fidgets, she guesses that the silence is awkward for her as well. But before she can think of anything else to say, Reinhardt pushes through the foliage, looking far more at ease. “Sorry for the long wait,” he says as he opens the door. “My little Fareeha! You’ve stolen my seat.”

“It’s your turn to sit in the back,” she replies.

Brigitte snaps upright. “Oh hell no!” She sends Fareeha a pleading look. “Please? He’s already wrecked my seat.”

So Fareeha climbs back to her original spot, and they’re ordered the way they were before. Brigitte starts the engine as Reinhardt makes promises to fix the leather. Soon the truck is gliding down the forest-lined road once again, the radio in the truck turned to some Lúcio hit. The looming castle ruins of Eichenwalde begin to grow ever closer as the sun rises higher in the sky.

Reinhardt finds a quiet he rarely possesses. The longer they drive, the tighter his lips press. Brigitte drums her fingers on the wheel, giving Fareeha looks in the rearview mirror. Break the silence, she seems to be saying. They both know that a quiet Reinhardt is never a good one.  Fareeha braces her good arm on the edge of his seat, leaning in to talk in a low tone. “You know, after hearing all your stories, I’ve always wanted to go here.”

“This place is a grave for all my brothers,” Reinhardt replies. His voice rumbles like a summer storm. “To return is to disturb a cemetery.”

She places her hand on his shoulder, giving it a tight squeeze. “They’ll want you to figure out what’s happening to that bastion unit,” she tells him. “We’ll leave once that’s done. Brigitte and I can even do it and you can wait in here.”

He places his hand on top of hers. His palm is warm, and the squeeze he gives her is powerful. “You become more and more like your mother every day. I’m sure she’ll be proud of you.”

She nearly tells him then. She almost returns his sure squeeze and tells him about the letter hidden in her bag. But the particular sadness gleaming in his blind eye makes the words die in her throat. Telling him the truth—even one that is so good at its core—would only ruin him. In that way, he’s like her. He would kill to have Ana alive, but the betrayal of her actions would leave him devastated. Fareeha doesn’t know how to feel about it. She feels like she’s a kid again, and she’s back to when she was too immature to really deal with the concept of her mother ever being in love with someone who wasn’t her dad.

Ana divorced Fareeha’s dad a few years after their rushed marriage. He had a career in Canada he wanted to go back to, and she refused to leave Overwatch. They had different ideas of how they wanted their lives to turn out and, in the end, they couldn’t fit each other into their futures. They divorced, and Fareeha grew up with only spending time with her dad when they could vacation to Canada. Not once did it bother her. While her dad was on the other side of the planet, she had her mother’s teammates to fill the void.

Everyone was her parent in some way. They took turns driving into the nearest city to pick her up from school. Torbjörn was always a guest at her tea parties, Gerard helped her with her shoebox panoramas, and Jack taught her how to ride a bike. And, at the end of the day, she had Ana to return to. It was a comfortable family of adoptive aunts and uncles, and a true mom.

The summer she turned twelve, things changed. Fareeha was suddenly aware that she was a girl in a world with plenty of other guys and girls. Her first crush had been a singer who attended a charity ball Overwatch held. He was ten years older than her, and polite when Fareeha asked if she could dance with him. She forgot about him a few weeks later. That Christmas, she fell in love with Amelie LaCroix. The older woman seemed to know this and teased her about it constantly. When Fareeha had to sit at the table and listen to her mom have a good laugh over her for being less than subtle, she gave up.

Her longest crush started the next summer when she and her mom spent over three months in Canada with her dad. Gabe had bargained Ana into taking Jesse with them. Up until this point, Jesse had been scrawny, sweaty, and grumpy. The three month mission he and Gabe had been on previously had filled him out, giving him the broad shoulders of an adult and a charming smile to match. Fareeha was downright in love with him. She spent every moment of her day trying to get Jesse to spend time with her, to at least notice her new earrings or the different way she styled her hair. Her crush lasted long after they returned to the Swiss base. Fareeha only got over him once he ruffled her scalp and called her the best little sister anyone could ask for. She was bitter about it for a week, then she returned to school and met the new girl from Taiwan, and the cycle of her crushes started all over again.

But once Fareeha was suddenly interested in romance, she saw it everywhere. She had the skill to notice the warm way Gabe and Jack looked at each other, how their teasing tones was nothing short of affectionate. She saw how Gerard adored his wife when they swayed together at the end of a party, faces in necks as the radio played old tunes. Even Liao bemoaning every ex-girlfriend who couldn’t deal with military life was a sign of love. It was wonderful to see the way people sparked into colorful life with the seed of romance.

One morning, she woke up in the little apartment she and her mom shared on base. She dragged her feet into the kitchen to see Ana already sipping tea with Reinhardt at the table. He was dressed in gym clothes, grinning as he spoke to Ana in a low voice. When he saw her stare, he laughed and told her to join them for pancakes. Fareeha was used to Ana having breakfast meetings with Gabe and Jack, but they had always dressed in some semblance of military garb and made sure to end the conversation when she woke. Reinhardt, however, talked to Ana about the gossip he heard in the locker room, then listened to her gush about a movie she wanted to see.

And when they laughed, Fareeha realized they loved each other.

She spent a lot of time trying to reconcile the thoughts in her head with what she saw. Sometimes, Ana flirted with the other founding members. That, she was used to since they all laughed about it like it was a good joke.

But Reinhardt was there in their apartment early in the morning and late into the night. He asked if she needed help with her homework and dazzled her with stories of his military exploits. If he wasn’t away on a mission, Reinhardt was the one picking her up from school every day. He dominated the space in her life reserved for all of her adoptive uncles, and it still wasn’t enough. He barged deeper into her life as if he wanted more than to simply be her mom’s coworker. Ana seemed to even encourage it, scolding Fareeha for trying to escape to Gerard or Gabe’s office. Yet, if around everyone else, he and Ana were cordial and miles apart.

They’re having an affair, Fareeha realized one afternoon as Reinhardt drove her from school and back to base. Her mom was having an affair and didn’t tell her. When she was a little older, she would understand why. Ana was his superior. Any relationship they could have would be considered fraternization. But as a kid barely scraping into their teen years, she could only feel a burning sense of resentment. Reinhardt could be her fake uncle or even her grandfather. He could be the man in her poster and nothing more. Never ever did she want him to try to be her dad. She already had a one in Canada who called her frequently and let her braid his long hair. Reinhardt couldn’t replace that.

In the car, Reinhardt talked at length about the mission he had just gone on with Jack and Liao. Something about Africa and omnic extremists, but Fareeha didn’t care. She sulked in her seat, arms crossed over her chest as she pouted. Reinhardt looked down at her as the car wound up the mountain. “Little Fareeha, what’s wrong? You haven’t said a word.”

She sunk lower.

“Did you do well on your math test?” he asked. “I heard Gabriel helped you with studying—”

“I don’t like you!” Now that she said it, Fareeha knew that it wasn’t true, but she couldn’t take it back. She would rather convince herself it was the truth than muster the courage to apologize.

Reinhardt slowed the car, if only so that he could look at her better. “That’s not true.”

“Yes it is!”

He was quiet, growing paler by the minute. “Tell me what this is really about.”

“It’s not _really_ about anything,” Fareeha snapped back. “I just don’t like you and I just want you to know that!” He gave her a look of utter confusion, and she was more sure than ever that he could never be her dad. Her real dad would have caught her bluff and ordered her to do right to herself and admit the truth. Even over the phone, he had a way of coaxing the good out of her.

For the first time she could remember, Reinhardt was at a loss of words. They drove in silence. When they arrived back at base and made it through security (a few choice guards asked her how her math test went), she stormed to her room in her little apartment. She wanted to draw evil brows on the poster of Reinhardt she kept in her room, but couldn’t bring herself to ruin it. Instead, she drew a blocky replica of his face on a post-it note and stuck it onto the poster’s victorious visage.

Ana found her an hour later, laying on her bed as she bounced a mini basketball Gabe had given her against Reinhardt’s stupid face. Her mom leaned against the doorframe, watching the rhythmic throw, bounce, and catch. “Is there something you want to tell me, _ḥabībti_?” she asked.

“No,” Fareeha said.

“Now that is a lie if I ever heard one.” Ana sat on the edge of her bed. She watched the ball smack against the poster one more time, then caught it before Fareeha could. She gave her daughter a cheeky grin. “I don’t think Reinhardt would appreciate you hitting his face like that.”

Fareeha rolled onto her side, letting her back do the talking.

“He just wants to know what he did to make you upset. He loves you, you know.”

She pressed her face into her pillow. “Go away. I wanna call Dad.”

Ana sighed. “Oh _ḥabībti_ …” Her hand fitted perfectly on Fareeha’s back as she rubbed soothing circles into her skin. For a while, she did nothing more than hum that old lullaby of hers. “Remember when you wanted Gabe to take you to the father-daughter dance at school, but he had a mission instead? You cried about it for days, then wouldn’t let anyone else take his place. I had to dress up like a man and take you myself.”

Her face burned with embarrassment, mostly since Gabe brought up the story any time he wanted to prove that he was her favorite. None of the adults seemed to understand that she had every right to be as upset as she was. “He said he was gonna take me,” she muttered into the cotton pillow.

“Yes, but did Gabe replace your father then? Reinhardt wants you to be happy. If you think he’s going too far or sticking his nose where he shouldn’t, then don’t be afraid to tell him to back off. Anyone who cares will listen, and he cares so much. And you have my permission to be as rude about it as you want.” She started for the door. “I’m going to make some tea. Would you like some before calling your father?”

Fareeha was silent for a long moment. In the months to come, she would set up her boundaries, clearly telling Reinhardt that she liked him as her friend more than anything else. But none of the hoops he jumped through to earn her trust would ever rid her of how uncomfortable it was to see her mom love someone who wasn’t Dad. If they were on base, Gabe and Jesse’s office and rooms became preferable to dealing with the long nights Reinhardt would spend at the table with a mug Ana declared to be his. If not, she fell in love with the solitude of her room and the long hours she could spend daydreaming about her future heroism.

But that was later. Right then, Fareeha chose to call her dad before getting tea. She told him about her math test (she got an A) and listen to him recount the stories of their family’s nation in a soothing voice that made her feel loved.

“Oh. Wow.” Brigitte’s voice is soft, no louder than a whisper as she finally pulls into the edge of the abandoned town. The rusting carcasses of defeated bastion units mar the picturesque image of Germanic cottages made of stone and wood. Where there is a free spot, grass encroaches. Brigitte parks next to an abandoned tavern and turns off the engine. “I guess we’re here.”

“Alright, so what’s the plan?” Fareeha asks. She looks to Reinhardt, but only finds him staring at the tavern’s weathered sign. The noon sun deepens the grooves around his eyes. Brigitte looks at her, waiting. Fareeha frowns, then puts on the face she saves for her subordinates at Helix Securities. “We’ll start with a preliminary search through the town. If nothing seems suspicious, we’ll move onto the castle. If neither gains results, we may either conduct a closer search or conclude the source of Torbjörn’s problems to not be from here. Clear?”

“Yes ma’am,” Brigitte chirps with a salute.

Reinhardt snaps out of his daze. “Understood, Captain Amari.”

Fareeha’s heart stops working. She waits for him to correct himself and call her lieutenant, but he’s already fallen into his role as a solider, lumbering out of the truck with a spryness that belies his age. She decides that she’s making a big deal out of nothing and shakes the worry from her head. Making sure her pistol is in the holster attached to her side, she climbs out after him.

They find nothing. Between the crowded buildings and aging architecture, there is no sign of anything suspicious. Fareeha even checks the ground for any sign of an abandoned bastion being moved, but only their steps disturb the dirtied path. Soon, Reinhardt starts burning. A pale red splotches his cheeks and forehead, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He focuses barging through locked doors and removing rubble.

It’s not until they pass under a small bridge to the village’s center did they see the white truck. It moves a few feet in the air, its motor humming as a few people mill around. The second she sees them, Fareeha stops in her tracks. Her eyes skirt over the truck’s logo-less side before landing on the badge hanging from the neck of a woman in a pencil skirt. She recognizes the blue and white globe in an instant.

“What’s going on?” Brigitte comes up behind her, taking a hold of Reinhardt’s hand before he can barge in and start announcing.

Fareeha grimaces. “It’s the UN,” she explains. With the clock tower staged in the middle of the square, they are out of the UN’s immediate line of sight. That gives her a moment to breathe and think.

“You’re tensed, Fareeha,” Reinhardt hisses. He’s trying to be soft, but his voice is naturally loud. On instinct, Fareeha shoots a glare at the woman in the pencil skirt to see if she noticed. With the way she presses a finger to her ear piece and rambles inaudibly, Fareeha guesses they’re safe.

But now she has to decide how to answer Reinhardt. She couldn’t just say that the UN has been looking for her because they know about the recall. That’ll negate everything she’s been trying to do up to this point. A glimmer of white hits her eyes. Fareeha winces, placing her not-broken hand on her brow.

There, on the top of the nearest building is a sniper.

She can’t tell if there’s a gun or not, but there’s no other explanation for why someone would be perched up there. Her heart bangs against her rib cage, loud and panicky. How did they get a sniper? Who did the UN hire?

“Hey!” The woman in the pencil skirt jogs up to them, trailed by a few soldiers in heavy black gear. There’s nothing remarkable about them, save for how their helmet and armor conceal any identifying features. Fareeha makes a note to ask Tariq if he can identify these mercenaries when the woman finally stops in front of her. “This is private property. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

Before Fareeha can reply, Reinhardt huffs. “This is the sight of one of the world’s greatest battles. You cannot keep people from it.”

The woman didn’t even blink. “This area is currently under investigation by the United Nations. It is within our authority that we can have you arrested for trespassing and interfering with an investigation.”

“What are you investigating?” The moment he asks it, the soldiers smarten and hoist their guns higher. The barrel isn’t aimed at them yet, but Fareeha can tell that they’re more than prepared to do so. Reinhardt sees it as well, as he raised his chin and holds himself like the founding member of Overwatch he is. “My name is Lieutenant Wilhelm.  I am back at these hallow grounds to conduct a search of my own. If you tell me what you’re here to seek, I may be able to help.”

The woman’s smartly plucked brow jumps. “Reinhardt Wilhelm,” she says, as if she needs to affirm the name for herself. “The matter of this investigation is completely confidential. However, there is another matter I need to address with you.” She looks down at her clipboard, skimming through the first few pages until she finds the one she’s looking for. “Being a previous member of Overwatch, you are now required to turn in your issued communicator to your local United Nations embassy. To refuse or do otherwise is cause for immediate arrest.”

Fareeha wants to look at Reinhardt. She feels like she might die if she doesn’t see the thoughts floating across his face. But she knows that if she does, she’ll just be admitting his guilt. So she focuses on the way the soldiers keep their feet planted on the ground, then glances at the sniper again. Now she can just make out the blue coloring of its splatter form.

Finally, Reinhardt speaks up. “My communicator was confiscated after my forced retirement. Frankly, I am surprised that the UN does not keep better track of their resources.”

The woman frowns. “Our details on the Overwatch situation is lacking.”

“Am I free to take my girls and get out of here?”

“I believe so.”

Reinhardt thanks her with a smile that looks sincere to anyone who does not know him as well as Fareeha does. His eyes twitch as he turns sharply on his heels. “Come,” he orders, placing his hands on Fareeha and Brigritte’s shoulders. His heavy palm makes the strap of her sling dig into Fareeha’s shoulder. He guides them away, retracing their path through the village back to their truck.

Brigitte cranes her neck to look back at the UN. “What about the bas—”

“Hush. There is a sniper on the uppermost building.” Fareeha is more than relieved to know that he noticed it as well, but his curt tone sends a spike of panic through her. Rarely has she ever seen him so tense. The last time his eyes brood with such dark emotions, he had just learned that Jesse’s registration for Blackwatch was hinged on a lie.

Their feet are loud on the aged stone as they walk. When they finally see the truck, Reinhardt releases their shoulders. “Pack up, Brigitte. We’re leaving,” he orders. His good eye skirts over the withering buildings, this time without the fear of what the ghosts of his past may do. His gaze lands on Fareeha.  “I’m taking you home.”

“What?” Fareeha grinds her teeth as a spark of fear cuts through her. “No! I came all this way and—”

“And I refuse to take you down with me,” Reinhardt snaps. His voice edges just below a yell, and the force of it shakes the weak buildings encircling them. A few crows perch on the sloped roofs, pecking at their dark feathers as they watch. “I don’t know how they discovered the recall, but it will only get worse from here.”

“I’m an adult. You don’t need to protect me.” She wears the face she reserves of the omnium in the Middle East. She glares at him the same way she glares at her Egyptian drill sergeants. The tattoo sitting on her cheek is weighted with lead.

Yet, Reinhardt does not falter. “I swore to your mother that I would protect you.”

“I can handle myself.”

“Let me do this for you.”

“I don’t need you to.”

He groans. “What do you want me to say, Fareeha?”

She sputters, not expecting that question. “I want you to trust me to handle myself!”

“I will take you to the first flight back to Egypt and that’s final.” Reinhardt turns his back to her, casting a large shadow as he stalks away.

A burst of anger overwhelms her. Fareeha clenches her fist, trying to keep every spitting word locked deep inside. When she looks back at Reinhardt’s retreating form, she can’t hold it back any longer. “You don’t get it, do you?” Fareeha snaps. “My mom’s alive!”

The murder of crows burst into the air, cawing as they flap wildly.

Reinhardt freezes. Brigitte pauses by the truck, gawking at the way Reinhardt stalls like a powerless omnic. Inch by inch, he turns to face her. He’s older now, face breaking by the second. “What?”

Guilt churns in her gut. Suddenly, she wants to be anywhere but here where she has to see that broken look on his face. It’s full of grief, one that strikes far deeper than the sobs that left him at the funeral. If she can take her words back and repair his visage of grandeur, she would. But there is no going back now. “She sent me a letter. She faked her death. This whole time, she’s been alive.”

He shakes his head. “Ana wouldn’t do that.”

“She did.” Tears well around her eyes, and Fareeha curses every fiber of her being. She didn’t want to cry, not now, but she feels a part of her chest is split open as claws probe the part of her that aches for her mom. “She abandoned us, Reinhardt!”

He steps back, lost. He crumbles until he falls into one of the dead bastions. The metal creaks under his weight, but holds. He stares at Fareeha, the bastion he sits on, then an empty building behind her. “No, no, no. Ana wouldn’t…”

Fareeha watches. She doesn’t know what to say. He looks too frail to touch. She’s not worthy enough to comfort him. So she just stands there and stares.

She hears the footsteps first. At first, she thinks that it’s the woman in the pencil skirt coming to arrest them all. But the steps are from heavy boots on light feet. They grow closer and closer, then stops at the edge of Fareeha’s vision. She hears Brigitte shift and start to speak, but the newcomer holds up a silencing hand. Fareeha can’t resist any longer. Her neck feels like clockwork as she ever so slowly looks away from the picture of a broken man.

Standing next to the truck is another slim girl. A button down shirt three sizes too big hangs off her shoulders, framing her graphic tee and shorts. A matching baseball cap sits on her head, her silky ponytail laced through. The teenager pulls her large sunglasses off her face to reveal one that has been seen on screens across the globe. Reinhardt practically jumps to his feet when he recognizes her, too shocked to make a word.

Hana Song doesn’t flinch. “Excuse my intrusion,” she says, bowing as low as she can go. “This is bad timing.” A few adults come trotting behind her—assistants and managers who scold her for running off. Still, she doesn’t falter. When she rises, she locks eyes with Reinhardt. “Korea needs your help.”

* * *

The sign is everywhere.

She first notices it in the poorer neighborhoods surrounding the airport on the outskirts of London. From the confines of her taxi, she sees a handwritten sign taped to the window of nearly every storefront. The deeper she goes into the city, the more often they appear. Like a switch, the low income neighborhoods turn into the high-end cobble streets of King’s Row. When Angela exits the car and tips the driver, she sees that the signs are no longer paper and poster board. Now they’re engraved plaques nailed artfully into every doorframe— _No Omnics Allowed._

Angela frowns at the plaque in front of a five star hotel. It looks like every other plaque in front of every other building. They’re standardized now, she thinks to herself.

She was there when Britain’s omnic problem snarled its teeth and bit into the city seven years ago. Adorned in her Valkyrie swift-response suit, she was a part of the team that ended Null Sector activities in the area and prevented another crisis. But she’s only use to reading articles about Overwatch’s negative effects on the omnics living in Britain. She’s never actually seen the results of her actions.

Legends of rainy England don’t fail her as large droplets smack the pavement and the overhang above. People—not omnics—carry dark umbrellas over their heads as they push past her. Cars hover down the street and send water whipping into her direction. Angela takes a moment to retie the belt around the waist of her long, olive coat before digging her own umbrella out of her suitcase. She bought it at an overpriced airport store, so its black canvas is emblazoned with a gray map of the Tube.

The storm brews while she picks up her suitcase and enters the flow of people. She has a hotel room reserved in a cheaper part of the city, but a part of her hopes that she can find Genji before having to check in. A few searches online told her that Tekhartha Zenyatta is due to speak tonight in front of the theater where Mondatta was assassinated. It’s part of a protest where the omnics and their supporters will once again beg the people of London to give them their rights. Genji has to be there.

The thought of her old friend makes her heart heavy. She knows from his letters that he has recovered from the trauma his family and Overwatch inflicted on him. But the spiteful Genji struggling with his past is the one she knows the best. Would she even recognize him now that six years has past?

Angela follows the crowd under an archway and, suddenly, there are omnics.

Their metal heads glint under the streetlamps, shiny from the water. A few have umbrellas, other hoodies, but they all are huddled on the sidewalk surrounding the theater. “ _U-ni-ty! For you-and-me!_ ” they chant in metallic voices. A few humans stand among them, holding up signs demanding peace and declaring everyone a part of the Iris.

Angela stops. A few elbows knock into her shoulders as the people behind her swear and move past, but she can’t help but stare. She sees the way people glare at the protesters, how a few bystanders linger by them with sneers on their faces. She can read the hasty graffiti on the walls telling the omnics to stay underground. Most importantly, she sees the way police officers stood by their motorcycles with one hand on their radios, another at the firearm. The wick is already burning. Now she and the rest of King’s Row is staring, waiting for the bomb to explode.

It’s almost mundane at first, but nonetheless it happens.

Traffic is stalled in each direction down the cobble street. A man in a black coat steps out of his car. With the engine still on, he has to drop a few feet so that his boots can be on the ground. He jeers at the protesters, mouth curling into a sneer. “Oi! Scram, tin cans! You’re blocking traffic!”

Traffic is, in fact, normal for the time of day and weather, but no one seems ready to point that out. Instead, more people pop out of their cars to see why this man is screaming. His outburst gives a group of young adults a surge of bravo. They start hollering. “Go back underground!” one of them, a woman with a doll face, shouts.

Independent from the rest is a man who weaves through the lines of stalled cars to where the protesters are. He stalks the edge of the protest line like an animal, observing the many metal and few flesh faces. He bends down to one of the humans in the forefront—a girl barely old enough to be in college—and places his face inches from hers. She holds a sign that simply depicts a human and an omnic holding hands. “Having fun, robot fucker?” He grins when she shrinks.

An omnic wearing a yellow scarf wraps a protective arm around her shoulders, but it only sinks her down lower. “Leave her alone.”

This can’t happen, Angela thinks. She turns and sees that the police are at their motorcycles still—a bit more alert, but standing to the side. They’re waiting to see if any harm will come to the humans in the protest. They don’t care what happens to the omnics.

The man steps closer to the girl, crushing her sign when she drops it. His hand is at her chest, but it’s hard to tell if he grabs the lapel of her pea coat or is hovering inches from the fabric. Angela doesn’t hear what he says this time, but it makes the girl go ghost white. Her friend, the omnic with the yellow scarf, pushes him away, and he falls backwards into a puddle. “Sod off!”

Now everyone is watching. Angela sees the police start to take their first steps towards the protesters.

A sharp whistle cuts through the air.

“Alright—that’s enough!” A blink, and a familiar woman is suddenly between the man and the omnic with the yellow scarf. Even in the rain, she wears nothing more than a brown bomber jacket and skinny jeans. Hair Angela knows to normally be unkempt and wild is plastered to her pale skin and drape over the edges of her orange goggles. She holds no weapons, but the sight of the blue glowing device strapped to her chest makes all the tension in the air come to a standstill.

Lena Oxton must be a local hero since one look from her makes every bystander suddenly return to business as usual. The man who started it all scrambles to climb back into his car before driving away. The return of the traffic’s roar drowns out what Lena says to the man on the ground, but whatever it is has him sulking as he returns to his feet to walk away. The police stop watching.

Angela hesitates, but then finds herself rushing towards Lena and the protesters. She jaywalks across the street and nearly jumps out of her skin when a car horn blares at her. She gives a quick apologetic wave before hopping onto the sidewalk once again. Lena is still talking to the omnic and the girl, showing them a comforting face. “You’re both heroes for being out here,” Lena says as Angela comes into earshot. “Thank you for having the courage to do this.”

“You’re always here when we need you,” the yellow scarf omnic says.

Lena laughs. “Well, someone has to be here to help.”

The girl looks past Lena, eyes landing on Angela. She gasps. “Doctor Zeigler?”

Anyone within earshot whips their attention towards Angela and, for a moment, she scowls as a flare of irritation jumps up her spine. But then Lena spins towards her, brightening until even the gray buildings look like a rainbow. “Angela, love!” She goes for a hug, but then remembers how wet she is. She laughs and pats Angela’s shoulder. “You should’ve told me you were coming to King’s Row!”

Angela shrugs, still feeling everyone’s attention on her back. The end of summer heat sticks to her skin and, more than anything, she wants to peel off her coat. “It was a last minute decision.”

Lena rambles as if talking is going out of style. “Do you have time to catch up? I have to finish up around here, but Emily’s going to be home and I can call her real quick and we can have dinner together. Of course, we’ll have to take the Tube back together, but I can pay for the faire. Unless you have plans. A big-name doctor like you must have every hospital in London begging for your attention. Maybe we can get together later this week for tea or maybe for a brunch? Whatever works for you, Angie. Do you still mind being called Angie? I can call you Angela or just Doctor if you want. It’s been years and we absolutely have to catch up.”

Somehow, Angela manages to tell her that she doesn’t have plans until the evening and accepts the dinner invitation. Lena buzzes, giddy with the thought, before returning to business. Angela stands to the side, a few feet from the protest line, as she watches the woman work. There was something calming about the little _zaps_ that fill the air when Lena zips to each spot, switching between each omnic in the protest to make sure they were okay. Angela remembers giving Lena her first physical as an Overwatch agent, feeling a surge of pride to see enthusiastic blood enter the ranks. But with those memories comes long nights with Winston, watching the gorilla kill himself trying to bring the young pilot back to her time.

Not that Angela did much to help. At the time, she was working with Ogun Prosthetics in order to figure out a way to rebuild Genji’s body. She spent that year working with Akande Ogundimu and whatever engineers he brought to reconstruct the body of a man who was broken in more ways than one.

Angela looks at the passing cars and the shuffling lines of people. What if Genji was right here, watching everything that has already happened?

Once done with the protesters, Lena confronts the police officers. From her distance, Angela can only catch glimpses of the argument. Lena rails them for not doing their jobs, but no reputation she holds can make them do nothing more than scoff and shoo her away. When she returns to Angela, her lips are curled. “Useless bobbies…” She looks at the doctor and brightens again. “Time’s a-wasting! We can’t leave Emily waiting.”

Lena’s apartment is a solid hour’s walk away, but the Tube turns the commute into a twenty minute ordeal. Wedged in the crowd, Lena evidently decides that the best away to make the ride more bearable is to tell Angela everything about the novel she was reading. She talks of flowers and forbidden romance, but between them hangs the unspoken weight of the world. Angela wants to know more about what kind of resistance movement Genji and his master have found themselves in. More than that, she wants to talk to Lena as an ex-member of Overwatch. Recall still eats at the edges of her mind. She needs to know where Lena stands.

After climbing up the stairs from the Tube, the apartment is a short walk away. The building is nice, almost nicer than Angela expected. As they ride the elevator up, Lena switches from the novel to the person who gave it to her. “I don’t think you’ve ever met Emily, but then again, I don’t think anyone from the old days beyond Winston has. You’ll love her, though. She’s smart, just like you, but she’s a district attorney. Plus she’s a great cook, so you’ll love her food. We met after I helped her fight off a mugger. Did I mention we’ve been dating for—what is it?—six years now?”

“I gathered as much,” Angela says as Lena searches for her key. After slapping her pockets a few times, she gives up and bangs her fist on the door.

Not two seconds later, it opens to reveal Emily herself—tall, skinny, and overflowing with red tresses of hair. Angela could count the freckles branching across her face and never finish. Emily gives Lena a look. “You left them in the dish,” she says.

Lena apologizes and kisses her cheek. This is a common problem. She steps to the side and extends a hand towards Angela. “Sweetie, this is Doctor Angela Zeigler. Angela, this is Emily.”

Emily takes her hand in a handshake, and Angela can feel how practiced it is. “I used to be a med student and I read a few of your papers in university,” she says, beaming a bright smile. 

“I hope you didn’t find them too boring,” Angela replies.

“Well, there’s a reason I studied law instead.” Somehow, her laugh is brighter than her girlfriend’s. “Let’s get you inside. Supper will be ready in a bit.”

The apartment is cleaner than anything Angela expected from Lena. Then again, she first met the girl when she was a fresh cadet just finding her way in life. In little ways, she can still see that young woman in the small stack of envelops on the table and the worn lumps in the couch. Emily struts back into the kitchen where she washes her hands and returns to the vegetables sitting on the cutting board. As Angela sets her luggage aside and finally takes off her coat, she watches Lena undo the straps around her torso one by one and takes off the chrono accelerator. It’s placed in a little charging station by the couch.

“So,” Lena says, going into the kitchen. She pulls out a few mugs and a tin filled with teabags. “What brings you to England, Doc?”

Angela takes a seat at the table. “Well, it’s a little hard to say. Do you perhaps remember Genji Shimada?”

“Ooh, that’s the crazy ninja guy, right?”

“He’s here with his new teacher to aid the omnics in King’s Row. Apparently he’s making a speech at a protest tonight.”

“Is this Tekhartha Zenyatta we’re talking about?” Emily asks, bringing a kettle of water to the table. Lena takes a seat across from Angela before sliding a mug towards her. “Cause a few boys in the office were talking about him. Supposedly, he was a Shambali monk until his radical ideas got him kicked out, but before then he worked under Mondatta.”

Angela nods. Many of Genji’s letters told her as much, but the way Emily said it suddenly made the concept of Zenyatta different. In London, omnics and humans living in harmony is considered radical. What kind of beliefs does Zenyatta boast for him to make even Mondatta balk? “He’s done much to help Genji in his personal journey of acceptance,” she says. “If such an omnic can help even Genji, then he must be able to do some good for King’s Row.”

“I would like to hope so, but things seem to only be getting worse here,” Lena says. She pulls a teabag from the tin before sliding it towards Angela. “I do the best I can to relieve tensions, but I can’t be everywhere at once.”

“It shouldn’t have to be your job,” Angela says.

“That’s what I keep telling her,” Emily adds. Her girlfriend only groans and leans back in her chair, an arm over her eyes to hide her shame. Emily squeezes her shoulder as she returns to the kitchen. “Would you like any cream or sugar with that, Angela?”

“None is fine,” Angela says. “But Lena, King’s Row is just a ticking bomb at this point. I don’t think there’s anything you can really do to help.”

Lena lets her arm drop. Her frown is thick and the silence in the air is heavy. “Do you really think that, love?” she asks, sitting upright once again. “Helping people is my job. I tried going back to piloting, or pick up teaching, or even mercenary work but I always come back to King’s Row. True, that’s partly due to that little bugger over there—” She jerks towards the chrono accelerator.  “But this is the right thing to do. And I’m not just going to stop because the odds seem unlikely.”

“You have to be practical,” Angela says. “I want to help as many people as I can, but there’s only so much we can do by ourselves.” She hesitates. “This isn’t Overwatch. Not anymore.”

A metal lid slams onto its pot.

Angela jumps in her chair, heart pounding as Emily mutters a half-hearted apology. Her slender fingers twirl the ends of her orange hair, and she stands facing away from them. The muscles in her back tense and the pressure never releases.

Lena watches her for a long moment, eyes wide and mouth open before turning back to the doctor. “You’re not serious,” she says.

“There’s nothing we can do,” Angela replies. She cups the sides of her mug and realizes that she never poured herself water. She decides that it would be rude to reach for the kettle now, especially when Lena is chewing on her bottom lip.

“I…” She pauses, and regains her words. “You’ve gotten the recall message, right? The one Winston sent out.”

Angela fidgets. “Yes.”

“Everyone has replied to it. Most everyone has said no, but a few of us are going to do it. Me included.”

Emily’s sigh is almost a groan, but it’s louder than the clanking of her cooking. “Lena, _please_ —”

“No, sweetheart, let me finish. Winston said that everyone responded except for three: you, Captain Amari, and Jesse McCree.”

“Ana’s dead,” Angela says.

“Yeah, so that means only you and McCree haven’t responded. And, like, I don’t blame McCree. He did go AWOL and is now apparently robbing trains for a living. But what about you? For as long as I’ve known you, you’ve always wanted to help people. Why are you backing out now? This is your chance!”

Before Angela can even think of a reply, Emily is smacking a pot of stew onto the table. “Dinner is ready. Lena, can you please get the bowls and utensils?” Her tone is clipped enough to make Lena frown as she pointedly stands and marches to the cabinet. Emily can’t manage a smile as she takes a seat. “I hate to ask this of you Angela, but can you please talk some sense into my girlfriend. This is crazy.”

Lena sets the bowls a little too harshly on the table. “What? And being a mercenary isn’t?”

Emily picks at the ends of her hair again. “That’s _legal_ , Lena. If Winston really wants Overwatch to be back, he would have petitioned the UN.”

“You know that would’ve gone nowhere.” Lena gestures fast and wild, trying to express what her words can’t explain.

Angela shifts on the hard seat as she waits for a lull long enough to excuse herself to the bathroom.

“It’ll get him arrested,” Emily snaps. “Literally all of the communicators in the world went off, including those in museums and to whoever became politicians afterwards. The UN already knows what he’s doing and is waiting to see what happens.”

“You’ve said that a hundred times already, but that doesn’t change the fact that this is the right thing to do.”

“It’s the reckless thing to do. I worry about you enough when you’re taking care of the people here. What am I supposed to do when you get arrested for terrorism in some country where I can’t help you?”

“I’m not going to leave Winston alone in this.”

“That’s why you need to talk him out of this! Tell him this is all a mistake.”

Lena slams her hands on the table. “It’s not a mistake!”

“Yes it is.” The two stop, suddenly remembering that Angela is sitting at the other end of the table, empty mug between her hands. Lena and Emily look at each other and soften. Lena falls into her seat as Emily turns her shoulder away, finger tangled in orange. The enormity of everything she’s already seen today hits her, and Angela wishes she has any kind of caffeine pumping through her veins. She turns the mug until the handle makes an invisible circle in the air. “You were not there when everything came to light. I saw all the lying and corruption first hand. I think that the idea of Overwatch is brilliant. Beautiful, even. But that’s all it is—an idea. To bring it back would be a mistake.”

Rain hits the window on the far wall. Each splat of water fills the apartment with noise as they wait. Emily looks over her shoulder towards Lena. Her hands still brace the edge of the table, so tight that her skin is red. A sigh leaves her. Bit by bit, she loosens until she collapses into her chair. She’s more pensive than Angela has ever seen her.

When Lena speaks, it’s almost too quiet to hear. “I don’t really know how to say this… when the accident happened, I saw different versions of this world.” Emily reaches to hold her hand. Lena smiles a little. “I saw what the world was like before we had a real idea of heroes. And I saw timelines where we never got it. I think I saw bits of this future we have now, but didn’t understand at the time. And you know what? I saw a lot of futures I never want to happen. If this is what I have to do to bring the world back on a good path, then okay. I’ll be arrested or whatever as many times as it takes. I’ll do anything.”

“Lena…” Emily whispers. Their hands tighten.

A new wave of bravo fills her. “I learned that it takes only one person to change the course of history,” Lena says. “Only one person has to decide to stand up and do the right thing and suddenly our future is way brighter. And that person is a five hundred pound gorilla who was raised on the moon. So, yeah! I think Overwatch can come back better than ever. No one could’ve seen what was coming, but we still just gotta be better. Make sure everything doesn’t get all screwed up again.”

“I’m sorry for bringing this all up,” Emily says. She leans over and kisses Lena on the lips.

When they part, Lena replies. “No love, I’m sorry for lashing out.” She looks at Angela. “Let’s just leave the past in the past for now. It soils supper, you know?”

Angela wants to say more, but she senses that the conversation is being forced closed. She closes her mouth and finally lets Emily pour warm water into her mug. Steam wafts into the air in thin gray tendrils. Her fingers itch.

Emily and Lena fill the room with talk about family and friends. Angela only half listens, nodding and adding her thoughts without saying much. Lena’s words rang through her head— _no one could’ve seen what was coming._ She tried convincing herself of the same thing when the UN asked her why the Swiss base was in flames. She told them that everyone cared about Gabriel Reyes, and they tried to help him whenever they could. No one expected him to take his jealousy so far. No one could have predicted what would become of that emblem of glory.

That is, except herself.

Two years into her employment with Overwatch, she took her nanotechnology and transformed it into a power never seen before—instant resurrection. Combat medics could utilize a machine that would inject a dose strong enough to bring someone back to life. The process put the body under tremendous strain and could not be used multiple times over a certain period. All bones would need to be reset before using, and the person could not be dead for more than a minute before use.

It was light years away from the technology Angela truly wanted on the field, but it was one that would prove to save hundreds of lives. But before she could bring it to the front lines, she had to bring each agent in one by one to test their capability. “Extensive testing was done to ensure that this is safe for most people,” she explained every time. “But many here are so extraordinary that taking precautions with new medicine is always a wise course.”

Everyone from the top officials to the janitorial staff filed into her office, and Angela joined her assistants in drawing a vial of blood to test. She personally saw to the testing of Overwatch’s best—everyone from Lieutenant Reinhardt to the Strike Commander himself. Everyone, it seemed, could be resurrected from the dead.

Then there was Gabriel Reyes.

Angela had watched his blood morph under the microscope, the two milliliters squirming like a worm before fizzing into smoke. The smell it left was wretched. Her legs shook as she stumbled back, hand on pounding chest. Her assistant, an intern, had her hand over her mouth, gawking at the smoke. “Dear God—what was that?” she demanded.

Angela panted, looking from the poor intern to the hazardous air detector on the ceiling. The light on it blinked, but stayed green. She gasped as if she had just learned to breathe and grabbed Gabriel’s medical file. Like always, it was sparse. “Allow me to find out.”

She marched from the lab back to the examination room where he sat on the paper-covered table. His dirty boots hung a foot off the ground. Despite having his blood drawn—a task Angela personally performed—no gauze was taped to his inner elbow. When he saw her, he beamed a congenial look. “What’s the prognosis, doc?”

Whatever speech she had prepared in her head vanished. Something about how overtly _friendly_ Overwatch’s most dangerous man was always set her off-kilter. He could be sullen and wry one second before overwhelming you with his genuine laughter. He was both sides of the same militaristic coin. Angela pressed her lips, thumbing the edge of his file, before holding it out to him. She said the only word that managed to come to her mind: “Impossible.”

He looked between her and the manila folder. “I didn’t pass the test,” he said, like he expected this to happen.

“Your blood did something indescribable before turning into nauseous fumes,” she said.  “I do not understand how that is possible, but I have the distinct feeling that it has everything to do with your very blank medical file.”

He shrugged. “I’m a healthy man. I eat my apple a day.”

“You’re a soldier, yet you’ve never been reported injured on any of your missions.”

His eyes hardened. “Careful what you ask, doctor. I am your superior.”

She tilted her chin higher. “It is also illegal to lie about all medical history and conditions while enlisted. I can very easily take this to your superiors and put your under review.”

“Damn. Had to pull the Morrison card, didn’t you?” He glared at her, the silence settling between them. There was a certain glint in his eye that made Angela want to back down, but she knew there was no turning back. She needed to know. “Fine, but I need your word that you will not spread this to anyone, and you won’t go evil scientist on me and try doing any kinds of experiments. I’ll tell you, you’ll know, and that’ll be it.”

“As a medical professional, all of your information is confidential,” she said, turning to make sure the door is closed. She locked it for extra measure, and they were alone in a room barely wide enough to pace in. “And human experimentation is inhumane and illegal.”

He scoffed. “Tell that to the president.” He didn’t leave her time to say anything else. From his boot, he pulled out a short knife. He held it under the white lights, letting her see her face on the serrated blade before slicing it across his arm.

The cut was no longer than the length of her thumb, but still Angela yelped and lunged to stop him. “What are you—”

He held up his arm, gesturing for her to watch. Before her eyes, the blood pulsing around the cut sizzled before evaporating into the same fumes she saw earlier. It filled the air, leaving behind a strange, empty slice of skin. Tendrils of flesh reached out and connected like string, knitting him back together.  “This, doctor, is why they say I’m a super soldier. Morrison got all of the drugs that were meant to make a soldier stronger and faster than the rest. I got the stuff that was supposed to make a soldier indestructible.”

Left behind was nothing more than a pale line that matched all of his other scars. Angela was breathless. It was nanotechnology built into a person’s DNA. If she had known this sooner, she could have used his genetic make-up to make her discoveries sooner. She could have saved more lives if only she had known.

“You’re looking at me like I’m a slab of meat,” Gabriel grumbled, sheathing his knife back in his boot.

Angela blinked. “Apologies,” she said hastily. She stared at the scar for a moment longer, imagining the possibilities, before meeting his gaze. He looked unhappy. “Have you been able to do this since the enhancement program? Consistently heal yourself, I mean.”

“Well, basically. Most bullets whiz right through me and I’ve been able to regrow a finger or two on an occasion. It still hurts like hell, and the scaring’s reached the point of being less handsome and more disturbing.”

“Incredible.”

“But truth be told, I’m going to have to start seeing you a lot more, doc.” Gabriel slid off the table. He was a busy man and had better places to be than her ward in the east wing. “Healing used to be pretty instantaneous back in the day, but twenty years of service is starting to take a toll. It’s not how it used to be.”

Angela felt the near-empty folder in her hands. She wanted to ask him more about his regenerative powers, but she knew when to stop. “I think it goes without say that I cannot approve you for the resurrection technology,” she said, unlocking the door. She held it open for him and placed her stiff hand on her brow. A salute. “But I have the distinct feeling you will not require it.”

Later, she regretted those words. Long into the night, past midnight but before dawn, she pressed the edges of a coffee mug to her lips as she mulled. Over and over again she played the scene of his healing behind her eyes. It was miraculous, but in the earliest hours of the morning it felt wrong. She stared at his near-blank file and at the younger Gabriel who glared from the picture in the corner. His beard was trimmed neater, the skin around his eyes smoother. A few scars sliced through his features, but they were not as numerous.

Angela remembers refilling her mug with more coffee when it hit her—a lecture from her psychology courses. Phineas Gage was a man who was famously injured by an iron rod that was driven through his head. He survived, but the incident destroyed his brain’s left frontal lobe. He became more aggressive and lost all ability to socialize safely with others. In effect, he became a different person.

Gabriel had been injured in the head multiple times. He seemed to be doing okay, but even he admitted that his regenerative abilities were lacking. The chances of him suffering from a head injury and never recovering correctly were high. The chances of his brain already being affected were even greater.

Angela knew that she was going against Gabriel’s wishes when she sent her request, but she had to do it. She was his doctor. It was in his best interest he was placed on medical leave until she could determine the safety of his sanity.

She had hardly returned to her office with a morning bagel when Jack arrived. He held up the request as he closed the door behind him. “Angela, what the hell is this?”

So she explained. Gabriel needed all kinds of scans—PET, MRI, CT. He needed a psychological evaluation. She needed to find a way to make her nanotechnology better so that he wouldn’t need to rely on an ability so risky. It was her responsibility to ensure his health.

Jack was the image of patience. “I understand where your worries are coming from, but I can’t take him off active duty because you have a suspicion. You need solid proof, and it’s not there. When there is an issue, you can do whatever you want. But right now I need him on the front lines.”

She steeled her gaze. “With all due respect, it is my duty as a doctor to ensure my patient’s health long before it becomes an issue.”

  He stared at her for a long moment. “He is not your patient.” He tore the request in half, throwing the pieces into her empty waste basket. “Do not make problems when they do not exist, doctor. Are we clear?” She felt his blue eyes bore into her skull as she watched the torn paper in the basket. No matter what he said, she knew she was trying to do the right thing. He had no right trying to convince her to do otherwise.

But she was an operative of Overwatch. She was their combat medic in white wings. She fired her gun when she needed, and followed orders when they were given. Jack was a good man. She could only look at the scabs and stiches while he could stand back and see the bigger picture. Compared to him, her childhood genius was nothing. She swallowed. “I understand, sir.”

Jack’s gloved hand was warm on her shoulder, grip tight enough to patch her resolve. If Angela could trust anyone, it was Jack. So when his eyes met hers, she felt reassured. When he said it was the right thing to do, she believed him. And when his shoulders fail to lose their concentrated tension, remaining stiff and professional long after he left her alone, she pretended to not notice. Angela swore that she would duck her head and focus on perfecting her technology, making it as perfect as she could. Make as little noise as possible, and she could continue her life-saving research. Gabriel may be out of her reach, but that did not mean she couldn’t stop trying to help as many people as should could. It was her duty to save people’s lives.

And she held steadfast to that belief until her line of life was forever tangled with the tragedy of Genji Shimada.

Now, she’s standing in Lena’s apartment, watching the woman pull on her goggles and leather jacket. The London rain is as restless as ever, beating the window pane with hard fists. Emily finishes clearing the table of dishes before helping her girlfriend get ready. She kisses Lena long and hard as she tightens the straps to her chrono accelerator. The machine bulks outward, preventing them from getting too close. Still, they hold each other tight.  “Be careful out there,” Emily says, clipping a keyring onto one of the straps. “Give me a call if anything happens.”

Angela pulls her heavy coat back over her shoulders, grinding her teeth under its weight. Her suitcase sits in another corner, waiting for her to come back from the protest. She prays the hotel won’t be too angry with her signing in so late.

“Ready to go, Angie?” Lena asks, perky as ever. She holds out the overpriced umbrella. “Think old Genji’ll remember me? He better since I saved his metal arse a few times.”

The smile that stretches on her face is tight. “We’ll have to see,” she says, accepting the umbrella. Her stomach contorts. Her blood thumps dully through her veins. Still, she tries to match her friend’s eagerness. “ _Allons-y?”_

Lena barks hearty laughter as she swings the door right open. “Yeah! _Allons-y!”_

Out of the apartment they go. The streets stretch before them, rumbling with the tensions of the night. As they go, Angela sees the signs once again— _No Omnics Allowed._ She tenses. The metal plaques watch her disappear into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Sorry this took forever to write! A lot of my life plans for the next three-odd years were spontaneously ruined over the summer and it sent me into a bad depressive spiral. I’m clawing my way out of it, though! Hopefully I can be a lot more active now. May the extra-long chapter here be a good enough payment for my taking forever.  
> -I have a lot of plans for Gabriel and Akande in this story. Right now the decisions I’ve made with them might seem a bit odd, but it’ll all come to light in due time.  
> -Fareeha’s section is a mess and I’m so sorry about that. I got carried away with the flashbacks.  
> -I’m also sorry that Genji didn’t show up this chapter! I keep putting off his introduction, but now I swear that there’s no way I can stall any longer.  
> -Personally, I really like the idea of tackling some really serious issues in this story, but I’m aware that they are extremely difficult to handle correctly. I’m going to try to do what I think is right (even if that results in me not going into as much detail as I should), but if there is any blatant problems you think I should know, please tell me right away. I wanna get this right!  
> -And finally, please feel free to drop by [ my tumblr ](miamaroo.tumblr.com)just to hang out and stuff. Feel free to bug me about writing there, or in the comments below. Feedback is always appreciated.
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> **Thanks for reading! Have a great start to the school year!**


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